


room for a little one?

by wagamiller



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3192032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets, prompts etc. cross-posted from tumblr.</p><p>#11 - Post-ep ficlet for 4x19 <i>Canary Cry</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, Baby!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SmoakandArrow's Flash Fic prompt #5: Oh, Baby.
> 
> For anyone who isn’t familiar - Flash Fiction is a short, self-contained story written, edited & posted in 1 hour.  
> Given the conditions of the challenge, please forgive any typos!
> 
> Totally plotless nonsense, featuring Original Team Arrow, with implied established!Olicity.

* * *

 

 

"Oh, Baby!”

She doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but in her defence there’s a  _baby_  in the Foundry. Where they keep the very pointy arrows and the other dangerous projectiles and hang on, which is also underneath a  _nightclub_  so doesn’t that mean there’s also the she’s-not-remotely-21-years-old problem to worry about?

“Ssh,” Dig hisses, bobbing up and down with Sara and batting his free arm in Felicity’s direction. “I’m trying to get her to sleep.”

“Bb-ut  … Baby!” she repeats, pointing a finger at Sara. “Oliver said no babies.”

“I know that,” Diggle whispers back, through his teeth. “I didn’t have a choice, ok?”

“Where’s Lyla?” she asks, shedding her coat and bag on her chair and heading over to Dig.

“She’s out of town on assignment,” Dig says, shifting Sara into a different position so Felicity can reach out and take Sara’s tiny hand in hers, bobbing it up and down in a little handshake. “And the Nanny fell through so–”

“So you brought her to our secret lair?” She blows out a breath, turning to address Sara instead. “Oooh Uncle Oliver’s gonna be so mad at your Daddy.”

“Oliver’s never gonna know.”

“Oliver’s never gonna know what?”

The thing about Oliver Queen is that genuinely, no matter how long you’ve known him, you  _never_  hear him approach.

Felicity jumps. Diggle jumps too. And Sara? She just giggles, adorable little baby gurgles because apparently momentary terror for the growns ups is just hilarious when you’re one year old.

“Diggle, what’s Sara doing down here?” Oliver asks, folding his arms as he spots the girl in Dig’s arms.

Felicity holds her hands up, backing away from Dig. “Nope. All yours,” she whispers, earning a glare.

“Take the baby,” he suggests, holding Sara out.

“No, no,” Felicity shakes her head, “you keep hold of her.” She leans in, whispering, “He probably won’t kill you if you’re holding your baby.”

Dig rolls his eyes, but doesn’t pass Sara over.

“Dig, It’s dangerous down here,” Oliver says, a perfect frown line appearing between his eyebrows.

Felicity heads for her computers, pretending she’s not listening. It might be more convincing if she didn’t drop into her chair and then spin it away from her monitors, facing into the room to watch their conversation.

“C’mon, Oliver,” Diggle shrugs, which isn’t easy with a baby in your arms. “It’s not like I let her play with your arrows.”

“Where’s Lyla? Or your nanny?”

“So I had some childcare issues,” Diggle explains, still bobbing up and down in an attempt to quieten Sara. The movement kind of takes the edge of the annoyance on his face. “It happens. Maybe one day you’ll have that problem yourself.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “If and when I do, the baby will not be coming down here.”

Felicity’s eyes widen behind her glasses, just as Oliver shoots a quick look her way. She tightens her hands on the arms of her chair, trying not to look too much like a deer in the headlights. It’s not entirely new, but Oliver’s change of heart about his future is still new enough that she feels a jolt in her stomach every time he casually references things like kids or houses or huge been-in-the-family-for-generations diamond rings. And boy, he seems to be doing it a lot lately.

“Look I’ll be here a half hour, tops,” Dig goes on, oblivious to the silent conversation going on in front of him, or maybe choosing to ignore it. “I just wanted to check in with Felicity about the triad activity. See if we’re any closer to finding out how they’re bringing the drugs in.”

“Don’t say triad in front of the baby,” Felicity puts in, wincing. “We don’t want that to be one of her first words.”

“You couldn’t have called to check up on the tri–” Felicity coughs in warning, and Oliver shoots her a disgruntled look, but amends his sentence anyway, spelling it out. “T-R-I-A-D case?”

“I thought the car ride might send her off,” Dig shrugs, “it usually does. Look, she’s here now, let’s just get on with some work, huh?”

Then, without giving Oliver a chance to protest, he passes Sara off to him. It’s an obvious ploy, perhaps, but it’s bound to work.

Sara makes a happy sort of noise, addressing Oliver with a stream of  babble. Felicity watches, amused, as Oliver goes from stern, to calm, to all out adoring.

“Fine,” he says eventually, warmth softening the edges of his tone. “Just once.”

It’s win-win, Diggle gets his way, Oliver gets a little quality Sara time which, no matter what how grumpy he pretends to be, he’s totally happy about, and Felicity gets to look at her ridiculously attractive boyfriend holding a baby in his arms. And damn, those arms are magic anyway but adding a baby to the picture? Her ovaries are very appreciative.

Felicity grins, spinning back to her monitors and waiting for her boys to come up either side of her, as always.

“Now,” she says, addressing the baby in Oliver’s arms, “Sara Diggle, this is how we catch the bad guys.”

(Oliver breaks his own rule 739 days later. Felicity shakes her head at him when he comes downstairs, eight month old in one hand, diaper bag in the other. “Don’t tell Dig,” he says, quietly. She winces, throwing a thumb over her shoulder towards the training mats just as Dig swings round the corner into sight. “This isn’t a creche, Oliver,” he says, totally deadpan.)


	2. Timeout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr, this is a little post ep for 3x14 _The Return_ and my very first attempt at Oliver!POV.

* * *

 

 

Standing on her front step, his hand hovering over her door, Oliver holds so still for so long that the security light on her porch goes back out.

He’s not actually planning to knock.

Never mind all the days he stood right here last summer, the sun warm on his back, completely sure of the welcome that awaited him. He really doesn’t need her door slamming in his face to know that summer’s long gone. She won’t throw the door open and smile at him tonight, and she’s sure as hell not going to waltz out, hitch up her sundress and throw a leg over the Ducati without even asking where they’re driving. 

Everything’s a little bit colder these days.

All he gets now is this - standing here in the February air, quietly existing a few feet away from where she is. It’s a little creepy and a little sad but she’s alive and breathing and _safe_ beyond these walls so he’ll happily stand out here all night if it’ll only quieten Slade’s voice in the back of his head. 

He doesn’t hear her muffled footsteps approaching the door until it’s too late.

Before he can retreat, she’s opening it and saying, loudly, “Shoo!”

It takes about ten seconds of stunned silence for him to realise that the request was probably aimed at the cat in her arms, not him. It’s more than a little embarrassing how relieved he is to figure that out.

“Oh,” Felicity gasps, pulling up short. The cat, sensing the opportunity, squirms free and makes a run for it. “You’re home.”

“You have a cat?” 

It’s a far easier topic than why he’s stood at her door at midnight on a Thursday. Besides, he can’t help it - he actually wants to know. God help him, he wants to know every last detail about her. If he didn’t already know that he was totally fucked when it comes her, that might have clued him in.

“It’s my neighbour’s cat,” Felicity explains, with a vague wave of her thumb in the direction of her neighbour’s door. “Always sneaks in whenever I open a window for more than thirty seconds, and my bathroom get’s kind of foggy in the winter so–”

She trails off suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to her that there are more important things to discuss than next door’s cat.

Things like –

“What’re you doing here?”

She folds her arms against the cold, or against him maybe, and waits for an answer.

She’s in a ratty old sweater and pyjamas, smaller since she’s out of her usual heels. Her hair is down, falling in loose, untamed waves around her shoulders. She looks younger, unguarded somehow, without her earrings in, her usually bright lips bare of lipstick. Something a lot like tenderness wells up inside him and he aches, actually  _aches_ , to reach for her. 

“Oliver?” she prompts, raising her eyebrows over her glasses and leaning her hip against the doorframe. “Why are you here?”

_Because I’m selfish. Because I’m weak. Because I’m tired. Because I love you._

“I wasn’t planning on knocking,” he admits, without really thinking about what he’s saying.  

Her eyes narrow and he closes his, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks.

“Ok,” she says slowly, lengthening the word into a statement of confusion.

“I mean,” he amends, scrubbing a tired hand over his face, “I was just …” 

“What, Oliver?” she asks, an edge of something in her voice. It’s not irritation, not really. It’s weariness. He always seems to tire her out, lately. God, he hates that. “You were just what?”

“I wanted to see you,” he admits, the truth rushing out before he can censor it, “but I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

He lifts his shoulders in a weary, helpless shrug. “I’ll go.”

“Come in,” she says, instead of goodbye, her voice surprisingly soft.

He follows her inside without a word, even though he knows he is far from worthy of admittance. Her living room is dimly lit and warm, and she is all soft lines and rounded edges in the half light. God, he wants to touch her. It’s like a constant pull, a dull ache that accompanies every breath, as regular as the twinges from the still healing sword-wound in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” she says, sitting down and patting the space beside her on the couch. “Y’know, besides the usual.”

He sheds his jacket, draping it on a chair. Then he sits down beside her, not too close and not too far and hating, really fucking hating, that he has to think about things like that now.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, making to get right back up. “I shouldn’t be here. I know you’re angry with me–”

“Just because I’m angry, doesn’t mean I don’t care,” she says, throwing out an arm to stop him.

“Doesn’t it?” God, he hates how pathetic he sounds.

“If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be so angry,” she says, carefully, like it’s obvious. Warmth floods through him and for a split second he is happier than he’s been in weeks. “Look, let’s just … have a timeout, or something.”

“A timeout?”

“Yeah. On me being mad and you being…” She waves her hands, as if she can’t encompass his behaviour in words. “Whatever. Just tell me what happened.”

“I told Thea.” He’s not surprised to hear the sudden catch in his voice. The memory of Thea’s face, so lost, is still enough to break him. “About Sara.”

Felicity breathes in sharply. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her make a sudden movement like she thought about reaching for him, but didn’t.

“How is she?”

“I … don’t know,” he admits, talking mostly to a random point on her wall. He can feel her eyes on him, but he can’t turn. If he turns, he’ll touch her, and he’s lost that privilege. 

“There’s something else,” she says quietly, more a statement than a question.

He doesn’t ask how she knows, he just nods.

“I saw Slade.”

“Oh.” 

Felicity’s breath catches, just a tiny hitch, a slip that tells him that the name frightens her. His chest contracts painfully because that’s his fault, he caused that. He painted a target over her heart, a heart that’s almost unbearably  _good_ and god, it’s not even close to the worst thing he’s ever done. Add that to the long list of reasons why he can’t sleep.

“He always gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

“Slade knew me when I was weak,” he explains, wiping anxious palms on his jeans. “Somehow he always knows just what to say to turn me back into that boy he met … that  _kid._ ”

“But you’re not that person anymore, Oliver.” 

She doesn’t say the rest, that she’s not so sure who he is anymore, but it hangs in the air between them all the same.

“Did he … mention me?” she asks instead, in a casual tone that’s not really casual at all.

“No,” Oliver lies.

“For someone with a secret identity, you’re a terrible liar,” she jokes, weakly. “Good thing he’s stuck on Lian Yu, right?”

He can’t find the words tell her about the screaming panic in his head, how he’d scrambled across the Island to beat Slade to the plane, how he couldn’t even say the fear aloud to Thea, “ _If Slade gets to_ –” 

“I’d do anything to stop him from hurting you,” he says quickly, in a voice that’s loud and fierce but somehow still  _weaker_  than he intended. “You know that, right?” 

He turns to her, not caring that she’ll see the tears behind his eyes or the tremble in his lip.

“I know,” she agrees, nodding quickly. Then she squares her shoulders and stares up at him, chin high. “But it wouldn’t be your fault if he did, Oliver. What we did - that was my choice too, remember?”

“I’ll never forget it,” he says, honestly.

The look she flashes him is the kindest, the softest, he’s seen since he came home. 

He blows out an unsteady breath that turns ragged when she reaches for him.

Her hand lands on his injured arm and he winces, gritting his teeth against the stab of pain.

She snatches back quickly. “Slade?” 

“Wooden stake,” he explains, holding up his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate the length. “Old booby trap.”

“Ah Lian Yu,” she says, shaking her head, “I don’t know why more people don’t vacation there.”

He doesn’t know how she does it. In spite of  _everything,_  she makes him laugh. And for one short, wonderful moment she laughs too, her head tipping back against her sofa. The column of her throat is exposed and he knows he’s staring but he can’t bring himself to look away. Suddenly it seems like the stupidest and the cruellest thing in the world that he doesn’t know what it feels like to press his lips to the soft skin there.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, when the laughter fades. “Does it?”

“No,” she agrees, tilting her head forwards again, looking straight ahead. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“And you shouldn’t have let me in.”

“I know.”

“I won’t come again.”

“I won’t let you in again.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

Then she reaches out across the space between them and takes his hand. 

Her small, warm fingers wrap around his and god, it’s so much more than he deserves.  _She is so much more than he deserves._

Still, he doesn’t let go.

\--


	3. Hierarchy of Handsome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little 3x17 wedding ficlet, originally written for iamangstville over at tumblr, who asked for some fluff.

* * *

 

 

"How d’you know John again?”

Ray’s question is innocent enough but Felicity’s pretty sure she stops breathing anyway.

She lets out the fakest of all coughs to cover her silence, buying herself a little time to calm the hell down. I mean, she’s 99% certain she’s not about to blurt out ‘vigilante friendship!’ or anything like that but you can never be too careful.

Having Ray with her at the wedding, with Diggle and Roy and Laurel and oh god,  _Oliver_ , it’s like … worlds colliding. Worlds that she’s done a pretty good job of keeping separate in her head and her heart  _and_  her social life, until today.

Oh, and later there’ll be _champagne_. Because what this situation really needs is the addition of alcohol.

“We uh … worked together,” she answers in the end, playing with the zip on her clutch in a way that she really hopes comes across as nonchalant and not just unbearably nervous. “He used to be Oliver’s bodyguard.”

“Oliver Queen needed a bodyguard?” Ray scoffs a laugh that’s a little too smug to be casual. “I always thought he seemed like a guy who could handle himself.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” she says blithely, looking anywhere but at Ray and absolutely, positively  _not_ scanning the room for Oliver. Nope. She’s just looking around. Admiring the flowers. That’s it. Yeah. The flowers.

She doesn’t find Oliver (because she’s not looking, obviously) but she does spy Diggle, peering out from behind a corner at the top of the room, Sara in his arms.

“I’m gonna go say hi to Dig,” she says, seizing the opportunity to get the hell out of this conversation. 

“Dig?”

“John,” she corrects, standing up so abruptly that her purse slides right off her lap. “We call him Dig.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Ray asks, picking up her purse and replacing it on her chair.

“Just … people,” Felicity says, hoping that she’s imagining the high pitched squeak her voice has become. “His friends. Actually everyone, really.”

“So I should call him Dig?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, now you’ve confused me.”

“Speciality of mine, sorry.”

“Hey - are you ok?” Ray reaches for her wrist to stall her. “Because you seem … not ok.”

“I’m fine,” she says (squeaks? Ugh, her voice is seriously letting her down), shaking off his touch and mustering a smile. “Be right back.”

Felicity decides not to dwell on the fact that the very second she rounds the corner out of Ray’s sight, she calms right down. She shoves the thought aside, putting it away in a little box with the one from this morning, the tiny little moment getting ready when her traitorous mind had thought how much simpler today would be if Ray wasn’t coming with her.

Diggle smiles at her approach, taking Sara’s hand in his own and waving it gently at Felicity.

“Hey guys,” she calls, hurrying over to where Diggle stands by the window. “Look at you both … you’re so fancy.” Reaching over to touch the shimmery silver skirt of Sara’s dress, she beams up at both of them. “Dig, she’s the cutest bridesmaid in the whole world.”

“She hates people,” Dig says abruptly, an edge of pure panic in his voice. “I’m supposed to be greeting the guests but apparently she screams at strangers now. That’s new.”

“Uh-oh. Want me to take her for a minute?”

“Would you?” Diggle looks at her like she just saved him from drowning and then handed him a billion dollars. “I just need a couple of minutes to make nice with Lyla’s relatives who hate me anyway.”

“No problem,” Felicity assures him, holding out her hands for the baby. “Gimme.”

Diggle hands Sara over warily, holding his breath while she blinks up at Felicity silently for a minute, her little forehead furrowing as she takes in what’s going on. Then, seemingly deciding that she remembers Felicity, Sara’s face relaxes into a big smile. 

“Do I look ok?” Diggle asks, straightening his suit jacket where Sara’s little feet had been kicking out.

“You look perfect,” Felicity tells him warmly. “The handsomest man in the room.”

Dig waves a hand dismissively, flashing her a knowing smile. “You’re only saying that because Oliver’s not in the room right now.” 

“Am not!” she calls after his retreating back, pulling a face that makes Sara start to giggle in her arms. 

True to his word, Diggle’s back inside a few minutes, before Sara has the chance to get too restless without him. Felicity’s standing beside one of the flower displays, smiling at how Sara’s so pleased with the pretty colours, when she hears the sharp footsteps of Diggle’s fancy dress shoes.

Except.

Oh boy.

That’s definitely  _two_  pairs of fancy dress shoes approaching. Adjusting Sara on her hip, she takes a deep breath and turns towards the sound. Sure enough, there’s Diggle hurrying around the corner into sight, lighting up as he spots his daughter. 

Beside him, striding over just as quickly, is his Best Man.

And the tux that looks so good on Diggle? It looks  _criminal_  on Oliver. Preposterously good. Better than that, even. There’s not enough hyperbole in the world to describe what it does to her when his jacket moves a little and reveals a flash of dark suspenders against his crisp white shirt. He’s basically sex. Living, breathing, walking  _sex._

And he only has eyes for her.

Felicity swallows, hard. Like a god-damn cartoon character.  _Gulp._

Diggle takes the baby back from her but she barely registers the action because Oliver’s smiling at her, actually properly smiling in a way that’s lighting up his ridiculously handsome face.  

She can’t tear her eyes away from him which means they’re basically just staring at each other from like two paces apart while Dig stands there to the side and her boyfriend sits obliviously around the corner. The whole situation feels dangerous and frankly, a little absurd. She blames the fucking suspenders.

“You look beautiful,” Oliver says, smiling down at her and god, now the wedding band is starting to play some sort of string music in the background, all sweet harmonies and soaring long notes. 

“So do you,” she replies, feeling herself blush the second the words leave her lips. “I mean handsome! Not beautiful,” she amends quickly, feeling her eyes grow so wide she’s surprised her contacts don’t just fall out. “Not that you’re  _not_ beautiful,” she goes on, ignoring the fact that she  _knows_ Dig is laughing at her by now. Oliver’s not far behind, his blue eyes bright with amusement. “I mean-” she waves a hand in the general direction of his broad shoulders, “Look at you, it’s just-”

“Thank you,” Oliver interrupts, stopping her before she can do any more damage. 

She flashes him a grateful smile, blowing out a long breath. And then, for some reason she will beat herself up over later, she lifts her hand up and reaches for his bow-tie. 

Oliver doesn’t flinch like he has every other time she’s reached for him lately. He just arches his neck, his eyes slipping shut for a second and when her fingers graze the bare skin above his collar, a contented sort of hum rumbles up from his chest. 

That’s when Felicity decides it’s probably time to snatch her hand back, because she shouldn’t be touching him like this in the first place and oh boy, she definitely shouldn’t be getting turned on by the fact that he’s basically purring for her right now. Still, she lingers for a fraction of a second longer, just long enough for him to swallow and her to briefly, oh so briefly, entertain the fantasy of licking his neck, right there above his collar.

When she finally drops her hand, Oliver’s eyes watch it fall to her side and he doesn’t bother to hide the flash of disappointment that crosses his face.

“I should go,” he says vaguely, blinking a little more than necessary, “check on … guests and things.”

“Right,” Dig puts in, amused. “You do that.”

Oliver walks away as quickly as it’s possible to walk before you have to call it running.

She does not watch him walk away.

(She does. She totally does.)

When he’s disappeared around the corner, Felicity glances back to her left. Dig’s eyebrows are so high they’ve practically disappeared into his hairline. Even Sara seems to be looking at her with some sort of judgement.

“Still think I’m the most handsome man in the room?” Dig asks, totally straight-faced.

“Fine,” she sighs, throwing her hands up, “I admit it. You’re in second place.”

“Second place? On my own wedding day?” Dig blows out a breath, barely holding back a laugh. “That’s harsh.”

“Well you’ll be first in Lyla’s eyes,” she tells him, laying a hand on his arm and trying very hard not to freak out that she kind of just compared her and Oliver to Lyla and Dig. 

“I can live with that,” Dig agrees.

“I should get back.” Felicity takes Sara’s hand in a little farewell shake. “Ray’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”

“Right. Ray.” Dig’s lips twitch. “Where does he sit in your little hierarchy of handsome then? Third?”

“Third is a perfectly respectable place to come in,” she says, throwing him a sour look when he bites back a laugh. “Gets you on the podium at the Olympics.”

“Bronze medal,” Dig nods, still smiling. “Not bad.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, making to go. “I can live with that.”

“Can you?” Dig’s voice follows her and she stops in her tracks, turning back to him.

“You see the trouble with bronze,” Dig goes on, smiling warmly at her, “is that you’re solid gold, Felicity. Through and through. That’s what you deserve.”

“We’re not just talking about handsome-ness anymore, are we?” 

“No, Felicity,” Dig agrees, shaking his head. “We are not.”

“Oh.”

“Think about it, ok? Call it a wedding gift.”

“But I already got you one,” she counters, feeling her lips lift at the memory. “I hacked your travel agents system and upgraded your flights. And your room, actually.”

“Seriously?”

“You bet.”

“You’re the best.”

“Yeah, I know.” She grins over at him. “Congratulations, John. Now stop worrying about me and Oliver and go get married.”

“You got it,” he agrees, then raises a warning finger in her direction. “But after the honeymoon, I’m straight back to worrying about you two.”

“Counting on it,” she says, flashing him one last smile and hurrying back to her seat.

“What time is it?” she asks Ray when she’s settled beside him again.

“2:45, why?”

She’s definitely not looking at Oliver. She’s looking at the flowers, just like before. If Oliver happens to be standing by them, hands behind his back, practically glowing under the fairy lights strung up behind him, well that is just a wacky coincidence, isn’t it?

“I think it’s going to be a long day.”


	4. all's well that ends well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's very vaguely set at the end of s3, but with no actual spoilers. Fluff and utter nonsense.

* * *

 

 

It’s not exactly the reunion Oliver was anticipating.

I mean, it starts off pretty perfectly -- he enters their makeshift base on the top floor of Palmer Technologies, exhausted but triumphant, and there’s Felicity, barreling towards him, a tiny blonde blur of clicking heels and barely contained joy. Before the door has even swung shut behind him, she’s jumping, practically  _leaping_ , right into his open arms. 

The whole room seems to breathe out at once when he wraps his arms around her and lifts her, just for a second, right off her feet with the force of his embrace. When he looks over her shoulder, Dig’s beaming at him, Laurel’s smiling right through a split lip, and even Ray Palmer looks grudgingly kind of pleased.

For that split second, with the trembling weight of her in his arms, everything is as he imagined it. And he did imagine this, every sun-soaked day and every cold desert night. When it seemed like nothing would ever be ok again, he imagined just this - coming home to her, holding her tight to him and not letting go.

(He’ll tell her that later, and she’ll laugh against his shoulder and say,  _oh my god, and I almost ruined it!_  But that’s skipping ahead.)

He’s so high on just being near her again that he doesn’t even realise when things start to go south. It happens subtly, just a stiffening of her posture when he presses a kiss into her hair. But Ray’s right there, clearing his throat awkwardly, so Oliver figures it’s just that. Ex-boyfriend awkwardness, nothing more.

Felicity twists out from his embrace (which is sign number two that something’s wrong, if you’re counting. He’s not) and he lets her go, turning to the others. Dig claps him on the back, pulling him in for a fierce hug that has his aching ribs protesting. Then Laurel’s at his side, tugging him into a quick embrace of her own and murmuring her relief that he’s ok. 

The moment he releases Laurel and sees Felicity, standing with her back pressed right against the glass doors, suddenly he’s not ok at all.

“Felicity? What’s wrong?”

“Well, I don’t know about you guys but I am beat,” Felicity says quickly, in a forced cheerful voice that doesn’t match her wide eyes. “I think I’m gonna go home. Get some sleep.”

Panic spikes in his chest, sharper and hotter than the dull ache in his ribs. “Felicity, what–”

“So yeah … good job everyone,” she goes on weakly, flashing a thumbs up around the room before turning to the door. “League of Assassins has nothing on us, right?”

Quickly, almost furtively, she glances back over her shoulder at him. “I’m glad you’re home,” she says quietly, in a choked voice that makes his own throat tight because hell, if she can’t breathe then he can’t either.

Before he can even register what’s happening, he’s staring at the glass door sliding shut and she’s gone. 

He spins to Diggle, spreading his arms wide in a wordless demand for help. 

“Why are you still here?” Dig huffs, waving his hand at the door. “Go after her!”

“Right,” Oliver agrees, snapping into action and spinning on his heel to follow Felicity. He finds her in the corridor, just about to slip into a waiting elevator and the cold grip of fear floods a little energy into him, trumping the aches of the day so that he’s able to drag his tired frame into a run.

“Felicity, wait!” He dashes in just as the doors slide shut.

“Damn, you’re fast,” she mutters, jabbing the button for the lobby and then stepping back as far as she can get, resting her back against the mirrored wall of the elevator.

She looks cornered and desperate, and the sight twists something in his gut because it’sso utterly _wrong_  for her to look at him like this, like she’s steeling herself for a blow.  

“What’s going on?” he asks, a hair’s breadth away from begging. His own reflection behind her is wild-eyed and exhausted, pale with the exertion of chasing her. 

“I’m running away, obviously,” Felicity says tightly, as the elevator starts to drop. “Unsuccessfully.”

“I don’t–” He releases a breath, running a shaking hand over his mouth. “I don’t understand. What’re you running from?”

It occurs to him then, in the fraction of a second before she answers, that it’s him. She’s running from him. Of course she is. Because she is good and bright and she deserves so much fucking  _more_  than him. He feels suddenly sick. Clammy and weak, like he could fall over at the slightest touch of her neatly manicured hands. 

“I just can’t do this right now,” Felicity says wearily, waving her hand between the two of them. “I‘m _tired_ , Oliver. I’m so tired–” Her voice gives out.

“Ok,” he says warily, raising a hand. “But–”

“So can you just ...   _wait_ , please,” she carries on regardless of his interruption, her voice wavering, “until tomorrow?”

Oliver frowns, his reflection in the mirror blinking too much and too fast back at him because that last part doesn’t quite make sense.

Felicity shrugs, a helpless gesture that makes her seem weak and fragile. All the things that she is not. “Can you just wait - and break my heart tomorrow?”

Oliver reels, steadying himself with a hand on the grab rail beside him because it feels a little like the elevator just fell twenty stories at once. 

“Oh, Felicity, no,” he says softly, horrified and god, so fucking sorry that things ever got this messed up in the first place. “You think I’m going to–?” He can’t even form the words. “No. No. I have no intention of–”

“Oliver, I get it. I mean–” She shrugs, a violent jerk of her shoulders that makes him flinch. “What happens in Nanda Parbat stays in Nanda Parbat, right?”

Her eyes dart about the elevator, absolutely refusing to land on him. It’s amazing she can even find that much else to look at in a 7x6 box that’s mostly mirrors. 

“We really thought it was the end, didn’t we? Of … life as we know. But you’re back - so we’re right back to where we were last year.”

He tries to interrupt her. Really, he does. (She’ll hit him later on tonight, right on the ass actually, and say,  _you should’ve tried harder_.  He’ll laugh and say,  _yeah right, there’s no stopping you when you get going_.)

“And yeah, tomorrow we can go ten rounds about how unbelievably  _stupid_ that is but right now, I just want to go home. I’ve been wearing these clothes for like forty-eight hours longer than appropriate. I need a shower–”

He tries closing his hands over the tops of her arms but she rolls her shoulders, throwing him off.

“And food–”

What happens next is a little drastic, but it absolutely works.

“And sleep–”

He pulls the emergency stop. 

“What did you do that for?” Felicity demands, reeling as the elevator lurches to a standstill.

“To make you stop talking.”

“I–” She blows out a long breath “-do not understand what’s happening.”

“Ok, he says, casting around for the right words. “D’you remember that night I came home from the duel - you told me you hoped almost dying would give me a  … a different perspective?”

“I remember,” she says warily. 

“It didn’t. But living has. Surviving all of this  _has_.” 

Felicity’s mouth falls open. 

“I want a  _life_ , Felicity. With you.”

Her lip trembles and then she smiles at him, tentative and hopeful and oh, he’s wrecked. Ruined for anything and anyone but her. That smile. Those eyes.  _Felicity._

“What d’you say?”

One sharp intake of breath, one stumbling step and she’s in his arms, clutching at any part of him she can reach, one word falling from her lips over and over. “Yes.” 

He pulls back a little, taking her face in his hands. “Felicity.”

And then he’s kissing her.

Oh,  _oh,_  and she’s kissing him back.

He smiles, right up against her mouth and you can’t really kiss like that, you can’t kiss when you’re smiling but he tries anyway, pressing his smile right into her lips until she laughs, breathless and delighted, and smiles right back at him.

It’s the best god-damn kiss of his life. 

(Not technically, obviously. Technically, he can and absolutely  _will_ do better, and soon. But in sentiment? Yeah, this one’s pretty perfect.)

“I missed you,” she says, pressing a barrage of quick kisses to his lips.

“Me too,” he replies, honestly. “I imagined this so many times.”

“Oh my god and I almost ruined it!” She laughs, dropping her head against his shoulder to hide her face. “I bolted! I basically ran away from the man I love for  no reason.”

“Good thing I chased you,” he says fondly, resting his chin for a second on the crown of her head. Two identical versions of his smile beam back at him from the mirrors. _The man she loves._  Now, that’s a title he could get used to.

“Oliver?” Felicity says, into his t-shirt. “What happens now?” 

“Shower, food, and sleep, wasn’t it?” he replies easily, smoothing a hand over her hair. 

“Hey.” She pulls back to beam up at him, so wide it lifts her glasses a little on her cheeks. “You’re gonna be there when I wake up in the morning.”

“Felicity, I’m going to be there  _every_  morning,” he corrects, quite seriously. 

She hums her appreciation. “My place or yours?”

The question is innocent enough. 

His reaction isn’t.

A sound rumbles up from his chest, something like a laugh but with a sharper edge, restless and possessive.  ( _It’s a growl,_ she’ll tease him one day,  _you actually growl._ ) He takes her face in his hands, tilting her jaw up and leaning down to kiss her again.

Felicity opens her mouth with a gasp, and then right when it’s getting  _really_  good, like just as she’s melting into him, warm and soft and panting these amazing soft breathy sounds against his lips, a chiming alert suddenly rings out.

Felicity yelps, jerking back from him as a voice issues from the control panel.

“Hello? Anyone stuck?”

“Wow,” Felicity grumbles quietly, cocking her head. “Eleven seasons and not once has that happened on Grey’s Anatomy.” 

Oliver snatches his hands away from her. “Can they–” He looks wildly around, catching only his stunned expression in the mirrors, her pink lipstick smeared on his lips. “Can they see us?”

She shakes her head, moving him bodily out of the way and heading to the panel. “Ray removed the cameras in the penthouse elevator, in case his suit ever failed and he couldn’t fly in.”

Oliver spares a fleeting second to feel a teensy bit smug because, well,  _ha_. Ray’s forward thinking wasn’t exactly intended to help Oliver kiss Felicity senseless without an audience, but there you go. These things happen.

“Hi!” Felicity presses the intercom next to the alarm. “Everything’s ok here.”

“Sit tight, someone’s on the way–”

She bumps her fist against the emergency stop until the elevator comes to life again. “Oh hey, look at that - we’re moving again!”

Felicity releases the intercom before the disembodied voice can reply, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh and something that sounds a little like, ‘boring conversation, anyway.’

She spins back to him, eyes bright and shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and Oliver thinks, fleetingly, _I love this girl._

And then, and this is the really, really good part, he doesn’t feel  _it_. That surge of guilt that usually accompanies that particular thought. It’s long gone.

He just stands there and smiles at her, all the way from the 20th floor to the 10th. 

“Right, c’mon - shower, food, sleep,” he says eventually, as the elevator display drops to single figures.

“And sex,” she amends, “I’m adding sex to the itinerary.”

He laughs, that breathless chuckle that only she can draw from him. “Before or after everything else? Or are we multitasking?”

“Food in the shower just won’t work,” she says, deliberately obtuse. “It’d get soaked.”

“There are other combinations.”

“I don’t know about shower sex. Tried it in college once - logistical nightmare. I hit my head on the tiles.”

“Maybe you just need someone with a little more upper body strength,” he suggests, winding one arm around her back and lifting her, ever so slightly, until she’s flush against him. 

( _I take it back,_  she’ll say breathlessly, tomorrow morning, when he’s taken her right up against her shower wall. Her hair will be damp, just starting to curl, and he won’t be able to stop staring at the little droplet of water in the hollow of her throat.  _Shower sex is amazing,_  she’ll declare as he leans down and licks the water away. He won’t disagree.)

The elevator chimes it’s arrival at the lobby and he lets her go a little, throwing an arm over her shoulder as the doors open. Felicity shifts slightly to get closer, her arms winding around his waist from the side. 

“I promise I won’t always be this clingy,” she says, burrowing into him until the corner of her glasses pokes into his chest.

(He’s just as clingy, actually. He’ll fall asleep later, completely tangled up in her, and she’ll wake him in the middle of the night with a series of shoves.  _God, you’re like a furnace. Get to your side of the bed._  He’ll roll over obediently, grinning into the darkness because he’s got a side of the bed. Of _her_ bed.) 

“Seriously,” she mumbles into his t-shirt as they make their way past the stares of the security guards on the front desk. “I’ll let go … like sometime in the next two to three weeks. A month, tops.” 

“Don’t,” he laughs into her hair, tightening his arm around her. “Don’t let go.”

* * *

 


	5. international waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little ficlet for the plane ride back to Starling. Hella angsty. I had to get this out of my brain before I attempt anything Al Sah-Him related.
> 
> Spoilers for Arrow 3x20.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Felicity wakes, uncomfortable and disorientated and somehow even more tired than before she closed her eyes, her first, absurd thought is that she doesn’t know what country they’re in. Or over, really.

Propping her head up on her fist, she slides the shade up on one of the jet’s tiny windows and peers out. The sky beyond is completely black, just one solitary light blinking from the end of the wing, illuminating the nearest patch of cloud with steady pulses of red. She cranes her neck to look down, trying to make out whether they’re over sea or land, but there’s only her own face staring back at her, the reflection drained of all colour. 

She shuts the shade again, turning away.

It doesn’t matter anyway. 

Wherever they are, Oliver isn’t. 

Unbuckling her seat belt, she stands and stretches out her aching legs, gently rolling her stiff neck around. There’s a sleepy sort of quiet over the cabin, no sound beyond the pulse of the engines outside and the steady hum of recycled air. Without her glasses, everyone is a  shapeless blur in the dim light, sleeping bodies hunched and unmoving in their chairs. 

If she half closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that one of them is Oliver. 

A shiver runs over her, right down to her sock covered feet. 

She starts to pick her way towards the front of the cabin, vaguely thinking of brewing a pot of coffee in the little kitchenette up there. But as soon as Oliver’s empty seat presents itself, a blur in the middle distance, she bites down on her lip, suddenly remembering why she’d hidden herself away so far back on the jet.

She hurries on, finding Diggle awake in the seat opposite Oliver’s empty one, his whole body curled towards his window. His watchful eyes, or rather the reflection of them in the glass, skip to Felicity as she stops beside him.

“I’m cold,” she murmurs, addressing his reflection. “I’m going to make a drink - d’you want a coffee?”

When he nods, she moves on, slipping past the curtain and out of the cabin.

The little kitchen is tiny and neatly ordered, an almost perfect replica of the one she’d used on the ARGUS jet just about a year ago. She’d sauntered back into the cabin that day, three cups held carefully in her hands, announcing that she’d made coffee at 40,000 feet and wasn’t that cool? 

Remembering, she stares down at the two paper cups she’s just got out for her and John.

And that’s when she loses it.

Quietly.

Oh, she wants to scream. More than that, even. She wants to  _howl._

But out there beyond the curtain, Thea’s sleeping.

So Felicity closes her fists until the cups crumple under her hands, and sobs without a single sound.

When she slips back into the cabin a few minutes later, eyes burning and throat raw, John takes one look at her and grabs her wrist as she tries to pass.

“Felicity–”

“I didn’t make the coffee,” she says vaguely, making to turn around. “Sorry–”

“Forget the coffee.” John moves his hand down from her wrist, until he’s simply holding her cold hand in his warm one. “Or I’ll make it for you, whatever.”

“I don’t think I want one anymore.”

“You’re cold.”

She shrugs. “I don’t think this is the kind of cold that hot drinks can cure.”

“Oh, Felicity.” 

She’s not sure she’s ever heard anyone make her own name sound quite so sad.

“You know if there was any kind of way out of this, he’d have taken it,” John goes on quietly, watching her carefully. “You do know that, right? You –”

“I know, I know. It just … John, it isn’t _fair._ ”

Her voice cracks on the last word. 

“I know, Felicity.” He lets out a breath, running his free hand over his eyes. “You both deserve ... just so much  _better_ than this.”

Felicity huffs out a humourless laugh. “We never seem to get it though, do we?” 

She turns her head, finally allowing herself to look at the empty seat opposite.

And there it is. 

The grey blanket she’d handed Oliver on the flight out is lying right there on the seat, where he must have discarded it when they landed.

“Oh.”

Felicity breathes out a long sigh, a sudden unexpected drop of warmth spreading slowly out from her chest. Shaking off John’s hand, she moves to gather the blanket up and drops right into Oliver’s empty chair with it, choking out a sound caught somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

Even as the miles trail out behind the jet, taking her further and further away from Oliver, she realises she’s taking him home with her, too. Remnants of him are  _everywhere._ The ache between her thighs. The bruises on her neck. The tiny bite mark on her shoulder.  

And this.

It’s nothing, really. Just a scrap of fleece. 

But oh, it smells just like him.

She feels the corners of her lips lift, even as the tears start to roll down her cheeks. 

“Warmer now?” John asks softly, when she’s tucked the blanket around herself.

She nods her agreement.

“Good.”

“I love him, you know,” she says softly, turning her face into the edge of the blanket and inhaling deeply.

“I know, Felicity,” John smiles. “And Oliver knows it too.”

“I guess that’s something, isn’t it?”

“If I know Oliver, that’s  _everything_ , Felicity.”

“I love him,” she repeats again, sleeping starting to blur her thoughts. “I really love him.”

“Close your eyes,” John says, stretching his long legs out towards her. “and try and get some more sleep, ok?”

Felicity hums her agreement, drifting off with her feet resting on top of his and the blanket under her chin. No nightmares. No dreams. Just the scent of Oliver all around her, and some semblance of peace.


	6. 5 things Lyla Michaels takes in her stride (and one thing she really, really doesn't)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Arrow 3x21, plus some spec for the rest of the season. Featuring Lyla/Diggle, plus some Olicity. Unbeta’d & un-serious. Enjoy!

_1._

It’s times like this that Lyla’s glad she’s got a pretty good eyebrow arch on her.

“So you’re a vigilante now?” she asks, folding her arms and putting the aforementioned arch into action.

“Ah.” Johnny, despite having been on the receiving end of this particular look at least a hundred times before, still quails before it. “I wondered when this might come up.”

Poor guy. He looks so nervous, she almost drops the facade of disapproval. Nah, not yet. She’s having too much fun.

“I’m more like … vigilante-adjacent,” John tries, wincing while he waits to see if that particular twist on the situation is going to fly with her. 

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” 

“Good, Lyla,” he supplies earnestly, “we’re doing  _good_.”

He’s got this fire in his eyes, all righteousness and pride, and suddenly she realises that he’s standing straighter and taller than she’s seen him stand in a long, long time. 

Well. That’s that. 

She melts. 

“Alright, then.”

Johnny smiles, right from ear to ear. Her stomach does this absurd little flip at the sight.

“But you’re being careful though, right?”

He snorts. “You make it sound like I’m sleeping with him, not fighting crime with him.”

“I’d be a lot less worried if you were just sleeping with him.”

“Wait - did you just say you’re worried about me?” he asks, lips twitching.

She tries very, very hard not to smile. And fails, quite spectacularly.

“Quit while you’re ahead, Johnny.”

His laughter follows her as she walks away. God, she’s missed that sound.

* * *

 

_2._

There’s pieces of the bassinet stand all over the floor.

In fact, Lyla thinks there might somehow be more pieces now then when they first opened up the box, but she’s wise enough not to ask how that happened.

Amongst the chaos, sitting crossed-legged on the floor and studying the instructions, is John. 

“You ok?” she calls, leaning against the doorframe.

“Not remotely,” he says frantically, throwing his hands up and letting the instruction booklet fly across the room. It drifts lazily to the carpet and Johnny just sits there, watching it. The second it lands, he snatches it back up, immediately pouring over the diagrams again.

Oh, it’s  _so_  tempting to laugh.

But since laughing kind of makes her want to pee right now (ok, everything makes her want to pee right now), she resists the urge. Plus John’s trying so hard to do this right, to make every single thing in this nursery perfect for their little girl, and she wouldn’t laugh at that for the whole world.

So she just smiles at him while he sits there like a crazy man, lining up different sizes of screws on the floor. By the way he's clenching his fists, she’s betting he’s one short. 

“How are you so calm about this?” he blurts out suddenly, looking up at her with a mixture of wonder and bemusement.

“Because it’s only a bassinet? And I know you’ll do it–”

“Not about that,” he says, waving his hand impatiently towards her stomach instead, “about this. The baby. Being a  _parent._ ”

“Oh, that,” she shrugs, fixing him with a steady smile. “Because we’ve got this, Johnny.”

“You think?”

“Are you kidding me? We’re gonna be fine. It’s two against one, remember? And she’s gonna be like” –she holds up her hands to indicate the baby’s size– “this big, at least for now. We can totally take her, don’t you think?”

“I love you,” he says fondly, by way of a answer.

“I’ll get you a beer,” she says, throwing him a wink. “You look like you need one.”

“Come and kiss me first.”

“Not a chance, Johnny. If I get down on that floor, I’m never getting up again.”

“Then I’ll come kiss you instead,” he offers, standing up and making his way towards her.

“See?” she says, smiling. “We’re a good team. We’re gonna be fine.”

* * *

 

3. 

She approaches the whole thing like a mission. 

Primary Objective: marry Johnny (again).

Secondary Objectives: look appropriately beautiful in proper white wedding dress this time, get plenty of wedding photos to show Sara when she’s older, host a damn good party that people are still talking about when the silver wedding anniversary rolls around, cater so magnificently that even Johnny’s cousin Wendy can’t find something to complain about, end night with sex in and out of the dress.

Tertiary Objective: look for opportunities to pair up Oliver and Felicity. For god’s sake, it’s gone on long enough.

So basically, she plans. And plans. And  _plans_. Every contingency is considered, every eventuality examined.

Kind of sounds boring, right? Actually it’s a whole lot of fun. 

She doesn’t tell Johnny that. If he knew she was actually having the time of her life striking fear into the heart of the cake supplier for a 20% discount, then he might just stop offering her those amazing little ‘stress relieving’ shoulder massages. She’s not about to give them up, thank you very much.

Still, everybody says she’ll lose it at some point.

Apparently, it’s inevitable.

Bridezilla.

It’s just a thing that happens.

Her Mom, her Aunt, her second cousin Amy, even the woman behind the counter at her coffee shop, they all warn her. Something will come along, could be huge, could be insignificant, but whatever it is - it’ll tip her over the edge and she’ll just  _go._

“Not a chance,” Lyla scoffs, every time. “I can handle this.”

And she’s totally right.

On the day, when John's phone buzzes with the news about the Arrow imposter, she doesn’t even hesitate before she makes for the door.

“But Lyla,” John protests, as she steers him towards the exit, “the party … the guests?”

“Screw ‘em,” she says cheerfully, linking his arm. “There’s booze and there’s food. They won’t miss us.”

“But you wanted–”

“To marry you,” she supplies immediately, giving his arm a squeeze. “That’s all that really mattered.”

* * *

 

4.

She’s in the kitchen when they arrive.

The League sweep in silently, assassins materialising from every corner of her home. They line up, black-clad and silent, a wall of enemies between her and her daughter.

In their midst is a stranger, wearing the face of a friend.

And for a moment, Lyla is utterly terrified.

“Sara,” she breathes, feeling her legs start to give out even as she tries to go to her.

“Sleeping soundly,” one the assassins tells her promptly, a flicker of feeling flashing across his eyes as he moves to block her path. “She will not be disturbed. Nor will she be harmed.”

Strength floods back into her voice, making it hard. “If that’s not true, there will be nowhere on this earth you can hide from me or my husband.”

“I don’t doubt it.” If she didn’t know better, she’d think the assassin was impressed. “Your husband will be alerted promptly, your daughter will not be alone for long.”

“Why should I believe you?”

The assassin shrugs. “Believe or not, it’s the truth. The League does not harm innocent children–”

“No,” she snaps, “you just kidnap their mothers, right?” 

“Enough,” Oliver interrupts firmly, stepping forwards to address her. His voice is all wrong, too deep and rough to be familiar. “You will come with us. Now.”

Her heart sinks. Not for herself, but for  _him_. For the man who stood up beside John at her wedding. Not a trace of him remains and oh god, he doesn’t even seem to know what he’s lost.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “For what they’ve done to you. I’m truly sorry.”

“Move,” he replies, not a flicker of emotion on his face.

She flicks her eyes over their number - at least nine that she can see (she’s kind of impressed that she warrants  _nine_ assassins), and assesses her exit options - depressingly few and all of them unlikely.

“Fine,” she says, sighing. Forcing her fears for Sara aside, she sets her jaw, throws her shoulders back and walks towards them. “Let’s get this over with.”

The assassins part, allowing her to walk into their midst. 

“The sink,” she says suddenly, halting and turning on her heel to go back into the kitchen. “Wait.”

And they do. 

Nine assassins and the Heir to the Demon, and  _all_ of them stand there and wait while she marches back into her kitchen and turns off the running faucet. Oh boy, when this is over, she is going to dine out on that for years.

“Last thing I need is a flood in my kitchen when I get home,” she mutters, huffing a sigh. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

5.

The next time Oliver comes to her home, he knocks at the front door instead of breaking in the window. She’s got to say, it’s a big improvement.

“Sorry, John’s not here–”

“I know,” he says quickly, his voice strained and quiet. “I’m actually here to see you.”

She’s halfway into the living room when she realises he hasn’t followed. She stops, spinning on her heel and finding him still standing in the doorway, his blue eyes overbright.

Heading back towards him, she bobs her head until she catches his eye. “Oliver? Aren’t you coming in?”

He looks so  _small_ , his shoulders dropped, his arms folded tight. “Can I?”

“Of course,” she says softly, starting to understand what’s happening here. Her heart constricts painfully. “You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

For a moment, she actually thinks he’s going to cry.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice almost giving out.

He walks in slowly, his movements small and deliberate. Like he’s afraid to startle her.

“I just - I wanted to come by and apologise,” he says haltingly, fixing her with those big watery blue eyes of his. “For what I–”

“Not necessary,” she interrupts, firmly. 

“But–”

“No,” she says, throwing up a hand to halt him. “No buts. You weren’t yourself. I don’t hold it against you.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not,” she assures him, taking his arm and guiding him to sit down on the couch beside her. “You know, for years I did a lot of questionable things because Amanda Waller told me to. And I  _wasn’t_  brainwashed. You know what they say about people in glass houses.”

"Still–”

“I wasn’t the only victim that day, Oliver,” she goes on, giving his arm a squeeze. He jumps under her touch, staring down at her hand on his arm like he can’t quite believe she would touch him at all. “Listen to me - you weren’t in control - they’d taken that from you. It wasn’t your fault. John will understand that eventually, I know he will.”

She smiles at him, softly and carefully, and his lower lip trembles.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll stay for a drink,” she says, making to get up. “This is my first experience of a post-kidnap apology. I feel like it warrants a toast or something.”

He huffs a laugh that’s almost genuine, a little spark lighting up his eyes again. “Sorry, I can’t,” he says, standing up too. “Felicity’s waiting in the car.”

“What? Why didn’t she just come in with you?”

He dips his head. “I didn’t want her to feel like she had to defend me if … if you didn’t want to hear me out.”

“Should’ve had a little more faith,” she says fondly, bumping her shoulder against his.

“I should,” he says, so seriously that she kind of wants to cry. “Thank you, Lyla.”

She tugs him into a quick hug and he lets out a shuddery breath, his whole frame relaxing.

“Better go,” he says, covertly wiping under his eyes as they part. “Don’t want to keep my wife waiting.”

“Your  _WHAT_?”

* * *

 

_+1_

She’s sitting down.

Which is interesting because she’s pretty sure she was standing up a moment ago.

Huh. She looks down at herself on the couch, frowning slightly. She’s really not sure how she got from standing to sitting. 

Oh, and Felicity’s here now too. She doesn’t remember her arriving, but here she is anyway. 

Standing right next to Oliver. Her  _husband._

Because they got married. 

In Nanda Parbat.

And they’ve got the audacity to be looking at her like she’s the one who’s lost the plot.

“I just–” Lyla throws up her hands, gesturing wildly at them. “I really can’t get my head round this.”

Felicity blows out a breath, throwing Oliver a nervous look. He stares back at her, and they have this little silent conversation with just their eyes. 

_So fucking married_ , Lyla thinks vaguely, the way she always does when they do something like this. Then she laughs, a sudden sharp hysterical giggle, because oh my god, they actually  _are._

“It’s a lot to take in,” Oliver says, watching her warily.

“You’re telling me,” she laughs again, still a little giddy. “The last time I saw you - Oliver, I didn’t even recognise you. And Felicity, you were a … a broken heart on legs. I can’t believe John didn’t tell me this,” she goes on, more to herself than to them. “I mean … this is insane. It’s huge, it’s–”

“I think John was trying to protect me,” Felicity interrupts, before Lyla can continue her hyperbole. “It was all a bit … well, crazy and y’know, not at all planned. John wasn’t sure whether the whole Al Sah-husband thing would be too much for me. I think he thought I might want to pretend it hadn’t happened.”

“But you’re not doing that?”

“Not a chance,” Felicity says, flashing Oliver a fond smile that he returns instantly. 

Lyla blows out a breath, dropping her head back against the couch. “I still can’t wrap my head around this.”

Oliver laughs, a honeyed sound that’s a pure joy to hear.  “I’m still working on that myself,” he agrees, still beaming down at his wife.  _His wife._  Jesus.

“You deserve this,” Lyla says, smiling up at both of them even as her head reels with the news. “Y’know, sometimes I think my life is crazy but you two, you’re just – another level of … of…” She trails off, unable to find the right word. Then she just laughs, helpless and still a little hysterical. “You know what? Nevermind. Just … congratulations, I guess.”

“Thanks.” Oliver’s smile is utterly ridiculous and his face, god,  _his face._  She’s never seen him look like this - all dimpled and lovesick, like one of those cartoon characters with their heart beating right out their chest. 

It’s a good look on him.

Felicity slips her hand into Oliver’s, leaning into his shoulder. She’s a light source all of her own, bright eyed and rosy cheeked, unrecognisable from the broken, empty woman who came back Nanda Parbat last time.

Looking at them both is a bit like looking at a bright sky - Lyla feels a little like she might need sunglasses to deal with them from now on. 

“I don’t know about you two, but I need a drink,” she concludes seriously, getting up and heading for the kitchen. “The stronger, the better.”

 

\--


	7. what happens now, like logistically?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the season 3 finale.  
> Xposted from tumblr - a little birthday!fic for youguysimserious.  
> Basically, because I obviously wanted to tie my brain in knots, I decided it’d be fun to look at what might have gone down after Felicity saved Oliver. _Like, logistically._

Save the city. Save the guy.

Now what?

Stand in the middle of the docks, still wearing the freaking A.T.O.M. suit, and make heart eyes at Oliver, for starters.

Felicity’s well aware that the whole thing is a little absurd. And considering that her day started with her super-fast meta-human friend releasing her from a dungeon in the top secret headquarters of an international group of assassins, that’s really saying something. Or actually, was all that was yesterday? Ugh, stupid timezones. Anyway, the point stands - this is ridiculous.

But it’s good-ridiculous for a change, so Felicity lets herself have a moment to just beam at Oliver. Who is very much not dead, very much thanks to her. 

“Wait, what about the virus?” Oliver asks, looking tentatively hopeful. “Is it–”

“Contained,” Felicity assures him promptly, “Ray’s got drones dispersing the inoculant as we speak.”

“Thank God.”

“Thank Ray, they’re his drones,” she fires back, unable to help herself. Now that Oliver’s very definitely not dying any time soon, he’s also very definitely not off the hook any time soon, either. “And while you’re at it, you can thank me too, actually. And John and Laurel and Thea–”

“Thea?”

“Long story, we’ll get to that. Point is - the city’s safe thanks to  _all_  of us.”

“I know,” Oliver agrees seriously, his brows drawing right in. “I needed all of you, I know that.”

“Now he gets it,” Felicity mutters to herself, huffing a half laugh.

Oliver shakes his head, smiling softly.

At least, she thinks he does. It’s kind of hard to tell.

“Hang on, I can’t really see you,” she mutters, stepping a little closer until he comes into focus.

“What?”

“I can’t see all that much,” she reiterates, flipping up the visor on the suit. “I don’t have my contacts in.”

“You–” He blows out a shocked breath, caught between a gasp and a laugh. “What?!”

“There really wasn’t time,” Felicity explains, with a wave of her hand. 

“So you were flying blind?” He’s either impressed or horrified, she genuinely can’t tell.

“Not exactly, I’m not  _that_ near-sighted. Plus there’s a display in here I could see,” she explains, tapping the visor screen. “And once there’s a target lock, the system does most of the work so–” She shrugs, the suit whirring at the motion of her shoulders.

“Felicity,” Oliver smiles, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing.”

Ah. Impressed it is, then. Good to know.

“Oh, it was–” She’s going to be flippant, say it was nothing, but the words won’t quite come. She can still see the dead weight of him falling, a black blur against the white water, and though it’s quiet now she can hear the roar of the wind in her ears as she urged the suit on faster, faster,  _oh god please - faster_ , to catch up with him. 

So she swallows the lie and tells him the truth instead, “I couldn’t lose you.” She doesn’t add, ‘again’, but she sees the flinch he tries to hide and knows that he heard it all the same.

“And I didn’t lose you,” she adds more brightly, as much as for herself as for him. “You’re safe.”

She’s about to smile at him again, can even feel it working it’s way on to her face, until --

“Wait - are those the bullet holes?” Panic spikes as she spots the tears in his jacket. “Oh my god, how many–”

“Three, I think,” Oliver says, tugging on his jacket to look at the damage.

“What–” She blows out a shallow breath, suddenly more lightheaded than when she’d swooped into the dam to catch him. 

“Hey, hey, Felicity, it’s ok,” he assures her, catching her worried eyes. “They hit the armor, that’s all.” 

She nods, trying to hold that knowledge in her mind, but she can’t stop staring at the actual  _real_  bullet holes in front of her. Just once, just for one damn day, it’d be great if people could stop trying to take him away from her.

Seeing her unease, Oliver moves quickly, unbuckling his belt and opening his jacket to reveal the unmarked black tunic below. “See?” he says, raising placating hands. “I’m a little winded, that’s all.”

“You’re bleeding!” she counters, pointing at his palm.

“Other than that, I’m fine,” he amends, snatching his hands down.

“You really should have led with that fact,” Felicity huffs, batting an arm at his chest.

An arm which just so happens to be in the A.T.O.M. suit right now.

Oliver doubles over, completely winded by the powerful blow.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry!” She leans over him, rubbing his back while he gets his breath back. “My bad.”

Oliver wheezes, straightening up with a wince. “It’s ok,” he coughs, rubbing his hand against his sternum. “I’m fine.”

Felicity steps closer, studying his face. His whole, undamaged, stupidly handsome face. Her heart-rate settles down a little at the sight. “Promise?”

Oliver nods. “Promise.”

His smile is a tentative, half-formed thing. He watches her carefully the whole time like he’s not sure he should be smiling at all right now, like she’s holding all the cards here. 

Felicity considers that fact, and all the million things she wants to say to him. Then she takes a breath, and puts them all aside. Until later. Because they have a later now. There’s going to be time for all of that - it’s going to be painful and a little sad and she’ll probably cry until her voice does that terrible hiccupy thing that makes it impossible to speak, but it’s going to happen - they’ve got _time_. 

It’s not too late.

So for right now, she lets herself be happy.

The second she smiles, Oliver just ...  _melts._  His nervousness slides away, the tentative smile widening into something genuine, a smile more real than any she’s seen on him in a long, long time. Maybe ever. Then he laughs, a short, breathless sound of unrestrained joy that’s quite possibly the best thing she’s ever heard. 

Warmth flares in her chest, spreading slowly, and she closes her eyes until the burn of her tired muscles fades into a pleasant sort of ache. When she opens her eyes again, there’s a sparkle in his over-bright eyes. Seriously. He’s actually, properly,  _sparkling_  at her. Felicity’s heart stutters in her chest and she laughs too, a little incredulous now herself, because this is a real thing that is actually happening. He’s basically just begging to be kissed right now.

“Uh … Oliver,” she says, grumbling a dissatisfied sound when she realises the suit is still preventing her from really reaching him. “I wasn’t kidding before, I have no idea how I get out of this thing.”

Oliver blinks, the punchdrunk smile on his face still in place. “Aren’t you going to–” He gestures to sky with a wave of his hand. 

“Are you kidding me? Not a chance. I’m scared of heights, remember?”

“But you flew here–”

“Yeah well, losing you scared me more,” she interjects, rolling her eyes. “But since nobody else I love is plummeting to their deaths, I think I’ll walk home, thanks.”

“It’s far,” he says doubtfully, taking in their surroundings. “Looks like we’re somewhere in the industrial end of the docks and that’s at least–”

“Twenty-one blocks away from Palmer Tech,” she informs him, tapping the helmet to indicate her source before finally finding the release to lift it off. Head free, she rolls her neck around, revelling in the range of movement.

“We’re walking? Carrying the suit?”

“Well, I don’t think we’ll find a cab tonight,” she says, throwing him a look. 

“Somebody might see us.”

“Then you’d better lose that jacket, I don’t want you getting shot for real.” Oliver looks like he might argue some more, so she continues, “Look, the city’s basically on lockdown, we’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced but he obediently shucks off his jacket and drops it to the floor, so she figures he’s caving anyway.

“Now can we  _please_  just get me out of this thing?” she asks more than a little pathetically, waving her hand at the bulky suit. 

“Sure,” Oliver nods, leaning to the floor to tear out a strip of lining from his jacket before clumsily bandaging his hand. “Let me see.”

He finds the release mechanisms pretty quickly and helps her out of the suit as much as he can with his uninjured hand. It’s not that difficult. It hurts, though. Like, a lot. A whole freaking lot. The suit’s not exactly her size and it pinches here and there while she tries to extract herself. Plus her muscles are seizing up with every passing second, because her strength might have been pretty significantly mechanically supported but it was still her arms, crammed into a suit not built for her, that caught him.

“This is not what I imagined when I thought about you undressing me again,” she grumbles, yelping when he finally lifts the top half of the suit off her.

“Me either,” Oliver agrees, already working on the bottom half of the suit.

Felicity laughs, taken by surprise at the admission.

Oliver just smiles to himself, working on getting her legs free.

A minute later, the suit is lying in two pieces on the floor, the helmet beside it, and Felicity is free. Her dignity’s taken a hit, but it’s intact. She chalks that up as the best possible outcome, all things considered.

“No shoes?” Oliver asks, glancing at her feet. 

“Nope,” she says, wiggling her stripey toes. “The suit wasn’t built with room for heeled boots, believe it or not.” 

Finally free to move, she rolls every joint she can - wrists, shoulders, arms, before closing her eyes and arching her back, humming in appreciation at the stretch in her spine. When she opens her eyes, Oliver’s close enough that she can see the desire in his eyes even without her glasses.

“Hey, Oliver,” she says, cocking her head at him, “how much is your chest hurting?”

“Not much,” he says warily, trying to read her expression.

“Good,” she says, promptly launching herself right off her feet and into his arms for a hug that’s beyond overdue at this point.

Oliver lets out a huff of breath, taken by surprise, but still he doesn’t miss a beat - his arms wrap around her at once, holding her firmly in his embrace as he swings her slightly, left to right. Felicity squeezes a little tighter, squealing her delight into his shoulder and very much hoping he doesn’t hear her.

When he sets her down, they’re both a little breathless. Oliver looks a bit like his chest does hurt, despite what he said, and her muscles are absolutely screaming in protest. It was, essentially, a terrible idea. Still, she’s not sorry. Not one little bit. 

Judging by the look on his face as he takes hold of her hand in his uninjured one, Oliver’s not sorry either.

It’s a little hard to speak, or breathe, or think, really, when he’s looking at her like this - with such open, unburdened adoration. It’s unfair. He should be made to give like at least a five second warning before he unleashes the full force of those blue eyes like this.

“Felicity,” he says her name slowly, like it’s a sentence all on it’s own. “Thank you for coming for me.”

There’s only one way to respond.

There might be a lot of difficult conversations in their future - about his terrible decisions and his self-sacrificing streak and his  _wedding_ , but since he’s looking at her like she’s the best thing in his whole universe, and since she’s literally just saved him from plunging to his death, Felicity decides it’s forgivable to skip to the kissing for a minute or two. 

So she leans up and presses her trembling lips against his smiling ones.

The second their lips touch, a sound that’s dangerously close to a whimper slips from his throat and any intention she’d had of keeping this as a quick, simple, glad-you’re-alive sort of kiss goes right out the window. She throws her arms around him, leaning up into the kiss until she’s almost right off her tip-toes, her whole weight leaning against him. His hands lands on her back, warm and solid, holding her up. Which is useful, as it happens, because when his tongue slides against hers she weakens, right in the knees, like she’s actually living an old Hollywood movie kiss or something. Except with much better kissing technique, obviously, and far less Hays code bullshit. This would  _not_ make it past the censors, that’s for sure. 

When she does eventually pull back, he kisses her again, chastely this time - once, twice, and a third time. 

“Let’s go,” he says softly, smiling a ridiculous bashful little smile that makes her breathing even shakier.

“I’ll carry this,” she offers, leaning down to snatch up the helmet and if she’s lucky, hide the stupidly big grin she’s got going on. 

Oliver huffs a laugh, frowning at the two heavy pieces that make up the rest of the suit.

“What?” she shrugs, hooking the helmet over her wrist by the open facepiece. “You’re stronger than me. Plus I did just save your life.”

“You did,” Oliver agrees, with a touch of wonder. Then, with a grunt of effort, he hoists up the other two pieces, slinging one over his back and carrying the other in his uninjured hand. 

“See?” she says, throwing him a smile over her shoulder as she heads for the road. “Easy. It’s only twenty one blocks.”

Felicity realises after ten blocks that walking back was a bad idea. Like an Oliver-level shitty decision. The streets are quiet at least, but she can feel every single piece of stray stone she steps on and her muscles are still slowly seizing up, until she’s aching with every step. Oliver doesn’t complain but she knows the suit is getting heavier with every block, and his injured hand isn’t exactly helping. 

They make it of course, because they always do. When Palmer Tech looms in front of them, Felicity briefly entertains the idea of kissing the glass walls of the atrium. She restrains herself, leaning her head against Oliver’s arm and pressing a grateful kiss to his bicep instead.

They don’t run into anyone on the way through the service entrance to the elevator, which is incredibly useful because Felicity’s got no idea how on earth they’d explain the suit, or her stripey socks, or why they can’t seem to stop smiling at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a follow up coming, about the night before the Road Trip. Because Felicity’s got to shower. And pack. And eat. But Oliver’s coming over in like ten minutes and she does not.have.the.time.


	8. you're the one that i want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspire by a random line in _Timeout_ (which you can find in Chapter 2 of this collection) -
> 
> _…she’s sure as hell not going to waltz out, hitch up her sundress and throw a leg over the Ducati without even asking where they’re driving…”_
> 
> Basically, this is the story of how Felicity ended up riding on the back of Oliver's motorcycle during the Summer of Unbearable Sexual TensionTMMachaSWicket

 

It all starts because of Felicity’s ridiculously small car.

Oliver’s folded into her cramped passenger seat, his legs bumping the dash at every stoplight.

There’s a dull ache in his bad knee that spells trouble in the morning, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not right now, when the sun’s setting on the horizon, bathing the skyline in a fiery glow, and Felicity’s sitting right beside him, talking a mile a minute as she drives.

It’s been an easy afternoon, just a couple of hours spent trailing after her while she ogled the kit she wants for the newly restored Foundry. _Wants_ is his word really, as far as she’s concerned, she _needs_ that new touch screen monitor. (Semantics aside, they both know he’ll get her anything she asks for.)

She’s still waxing lyrical about the new equipment now, mostly at a level of techno-babble that he barely understands, so he closes his eyes on the sunset and lets himself be lulled into a doze by the pleasant timbre of her voice, the single most comforting sound in his entire world.

“And if I order it tonight, we could have it by next week–”

“I still don’t see why we had to go see it if we’re just going to buy it online,” he murmurs, not bothering to open his eyes as he picks up the argument they started in the last store.

“Online is more anonymous, Oliver.” He can practically _hear_ the eye roll that accompanies that answer, even if he can’t see it. “We can’t exactly walk back into the store and ask for vigilante supplies.”

He opens his eyes to squint at her, cocking his head. “I don’t think they actually label them up like that.”

“Whatever. Online is safer, that’s all I’m saying. But I still like to see things in person first. Y’know, see what they feel like in my dainty but extremely dangerous hands.” She makes a little grabby motion with her hands, flexing her brightly painted nails on the steering wheel.

Oliver hums a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Anyway, you didn’t have to come–”

“No, I wanted to,” he corrects, a little too quickly.

Felicity beams at him, slowing the car right down.

For a wild second he thinks she’s stopping the car to say something, something like what he’s thinking - that this afternoon they acted a little like a couple and he wished like hell that it was real - but one glance beyond her reveals that they’re just back at her apartment. Disappointment lands heavy on his chest, crushing the hopeful breath he’d been holding.

“This was fun,” Felicity says, pulling the car into a spot outside her door. “Almost normal.”

It’s a thinly veiled version of the conversation he hoped for and Oliver’s breath catches again, fluttering high in his chest as he wonders if it’s just a cruel coincidence or something more deliberate. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to read her mood from the grip of her hands on the wheel. “Yeah, it was–”

“If you discount the fact that we were looking at supplies for fighting crime,” Felicity goes on blithely, before he can finish. “And just imagine we were like … out to buy a new flat-screen, or something.”

“Yeah.” Oliver deflates, pushing away the urge to confess that he almost took her hand at least ten times in ten different stores today. He wants to take it right now, actually. It’s a constant itch under his skin, the need to touch her. He laughs instead, forcing a lightness he doesn’t feel. “Where would I put a flat screen anyway? I live in the Foundry.”

“Oh no, the flat-screen would be for me,” she teases, moving to get out of the car. “Obviously.”

Oliver follows, all but falling out onto the street as he tries to extract himself from her tiny front seat. His bad knee throbs, sore after too long in the same position, as he hobbles awkwardly round to her side to take hold of her door.

“But I’d let you watch sports on it sometimes,” she goes on, smiling up at him above her glasses. As she speaks, she swings her legs out on the sidewalk and the skirt of her dress rides up a little, revealing a flash of pale skin. "If you asked me nicely."

Oliver feels his lips part in surprise and he clamps them shut again, willing himself to look away, to look anywhere - at her face, at the car - _anywhere_ but where’s he’s looking right now. He blinks rapidly and finds that he’s still staring at her bare thighs. Giving himself a little shake, he drags his gaze back up somewhere decent just as Felicity slips out of the car in one graceful motion.

Something must show on his face, because Felicity’s brow furrows in concern as soon as she’s beside him. “Hey, are you ok?” She reaches for him, resting her hand on his arm and searching his face. “Did I tire you out?”

His brain chooses that exact moment to conjure up one extremely vivid image - Felicity straddling his thighs in that absurdly tiny car, her laughter hot against his skin, her skirt hitched up around her hips, _tiring him out._

“Because of the shopping,” she corrects herself almost lazily, barely even pausing at the innuendo. “Well, window shopping actually.”

“It’s just my knee,” he lies, closing the door behind her and stamping his leg a little to try and shake out the numbness. It’s his knee, yes, but it’s not _just_ his knee. It’s that skirt and her thighs and that ten minutes this afternoon when he could barely walk because she was sipping some ridiculously frothy excuse for iced coffee through a straw and all he could think was about was those bright pink lips wrapped around him instead. “Your car’s a little small.” He clears his throat, tapping a hand against the car. “That’s all.”

“Not exactly the limos you’re used to, huh?”

“You could say that,” he agrees. “I’ve been in bigger cages.”

“Hey!” Felicity protests, covering the wing mirror with her hands like it’s the car’s ear or something. “Don’t insult Betsy.”

“You named your car?”  

“So?” She shoots him a look, then lowers her voice to a whisper, “You named your vigilante alter-ego.”

“Point taken.”

And that’s when it happens. Instead of heading up the steps and inside, Felicity takes a detour towards where his Ducati is parked.

“You should’ve brought me the spare helmet,” she says, trailing an idle hand over the bodywork. Then she turns right around to look back at him, all sparkly eyes and August sunshine bouncing off her hair, and tips him a wink. “Could’ve taken me for a ride.”

 

* * *

 

He’s almost positive that she wasn’t being serious.

It was a throwaway comment.

Completely forgettable.

Except that he _can’t._

Every time he gets on the bike, it feels a little bit like something’s missing. Like the warm weight of her body should be at his back, her small hands locked around his waist. Pretty soon, Felicity on the back of his motorcycle is the only thing he can think about. At night in the bed she bought him. In the shower, although he detours to thoughts of reclining the seat in her car for a while. In the Glades, in the Arrow hood, with three Triad members chasing him. Half way up the Salmon Ladder, almost losing his hand-hold.

This near constant distraction is why he finds himself parked outside her door three days after her careless remark started it all, his spare helmet in one hand and his phone in the other. He sends the message with shaking hands, fully aware that that’s totally ridiculous because he’s an archer and he kind of relies on hands that don’t shake, except apparently he can’t help it when he’s typing out: _Spare helmet with me today..._

Her reply is some sort of weird little cartoon and he’s still frowning down at it, trying to figure out if the two hands are high fiving or praying, when her front door clicks shut. When he looks up, Felicity’s skipping down her front steps towards him, one hand raised in greeting.

The sun-dress she’s wearing is white and blue, fitted tight to her curves and then flaring from the waist. It’s pretty and bright, and very, very Felicity. It also happens to be completely and utterly inappropriate for riding on the back of a motorcycle. Oliver opens his mouth to tell her that but the words never make it past his throat because she flips up the skirt of her dress, throwing one leg over the bike and affording him a glance at the same pale thighs that have haunted him as much as the motorcycle fantasy. He just sits there, mute and paralysed, as she grabs his shoulder for balance and climbs on the back of the bike like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“Uh, Felicity?” he chokes out somehow, once she’s settled behind him. “You … uh …  might be a little cold in that dress.”

Then, and he really doesn’t know what possesses him, he reaches one hand back to touch the thin fabric of the dress. That’d probably be bad enough, except his hand doesn’t land on the dress ... it lands on the bare skin just above her knee instead.

Oliver freezes, heart hammering wildly in his chest. Her skin is softer and warmer than he imagined - and oh god, he imagined it - but the thing that really ruins him, that basically dictates at least the next week’s worth of fantasies, is that she doesn’t even jump under his touch. It’s like his hand resting above her knee isn’t even that weird. Her reaction is really the only explanation for why he doesn’t move his hand at all, unless you count the little circles his thumb seems to be drawing over her skin.

“Oh, right! Of course,” Felicity says, apparently not at all bothered that he’s on his way to second base here. “I’ll just go change.”

Her hands land on his shoulders again, steadying herself as she climbs off the bike. “Come in,” she calls over her shoulder, long hair dancing behind her as she takes the steps two at a time, “I’ll be quick - I promise.”

“Right,” he stutters out, climbing carefully off the bike and trying to ignore the fact that his jeans seem a lot tighter in certain areas than a moment ago.

Oliver spends the five minutes she’s changing trying to concentrate on every non sexual thing he can think of. It doesn’t work, because everything around him smells like Felicity and she’s _changing_ behind that door in the corner and she keeps talking to him _through the same door!_ By the time she opens it and steps out, he’s wound so tight that he practically shoots up off the couch, standing so fast that his head swims.

Felicity strolls out into the room, dressed in dark jeans and a long sleeved black tee that’s cut sharply across her shoulders, revealing her neck and collarbone. Her glasses are gone and her hair is pulled back in a higher than usual ponytail that swings down her back as she walks.

Oliver gapes at her, blinking far too much and far too fast.

She cocks her head at him, throwing a hand up on her hip. “Tell me about it, stud.”

And he knows then that he’s ruined, that he’s so fucking gone on this girl that there’s no hope left for him, because somehow she’s even more beautiful right now, standing there in this ridiculous pose, making this ridiculous joke, than she was when she walked out all silent and haughty. She screws up her nose when he doesn’t react and god, even that’s hot.

“Y’know, like from Grease?” She drops the pose and looks at him expectantly, waving a hand over her outfit. “Oh, never mind. You’re useless.” She heads to her door, still talking, mostly about the stuff she ordered and when it’s going to arrive. There’s also something thrown in about Travolta not even having a motorcycle anyway. “I mean the movie’s pretty famous for the car after all.”

Oliver just stands there, acutely aware that he’s not really listening to a single word she’s saying. His entire universe has narrowed to her ass in those jeans.

“Oliver?” Felicity pauses at the door, giving up on her hummed rendition of _Greased Lightning_. “Everything ok?”

“Fine,” he manages to say, hurrying to catch up with her. If she notices that his voice is a little thinner and higher than usual, she doesn’t say anything. “Let’s go.”

He follows her outside.

To his bike.

Shit.

Somewhere in the last five minutes he managed to forget what this whole outfit change was even for. He wonders if that was some sort of self preservation thing, to stop him actually spontaneously combusting while she changed.

“Y’know, my mom was never much for rules,” Felicity muses, nudging her elbow against his arm.

He jumps a fucking _mile_ when she touches him.

“But when I left for college she did make me promise one thing–”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

She stops beside the bike, trailing a hand over the seat and flashing him a wicked smile. “That I’d never get on the back of a motorcycle. No matter how pretty the driver was.”

Oliver stutters something high-pitched and nonsensical, hoping against hope that she takes it as a laugh. He clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for disappointing your–”

“Are you kidding me?” Felicity shakes her head, holding out her hand for his spare helmet. “She’d be thrilled. She doesn’t think I break enough rules in life.”

“Well that’s only because she doesn’t know what we do at night,” Oliver says, handing her the helmet and almost swallowing his tongue at the way the comment comes out.

Felicity just scoffs, carefully maneuvering the helmet over her hair. “Right, let’s do this.”

Oliver jams his own helmet on, grateful for the excuse to hide his face, and climbs onto the bike. Even though he knows it’s coming, he still jumps a little when Felicity clambers on carefully behind him, molding herself to his back and settling her tiny hands on his waist.

“Ready?” he calls over his shoulder, not able to turn enough to see her.

“Ready.”

“I won’t go fast, okay?”

Felicity gives his waist a squeeze. “I trust you.”

His heart turns over and he fires the ignition, the rev of the engine drowning out the strangled little noise he makes in the back of his throat.

 

* * *

 

When they’re driving, Oliver’s mind clears. There’s just the road, the wind around them, and Felicity’s warm and comforting weight at his back. It’s easy, driving with her like this. It’s not a distraction, knowing that she’s there. It’s a privilege. She’s a good passenger too, she moves at all the right times and her hands on his waist don’t clutch or grab, they’re steady and still. In no time at all, he’s pulling the bike into the back lot at Verdant and killing the engine.

Felicity clambers off carefully and Oliver follows, flipping the visor up on his own helmet. “You okay?

“Holy shit, Oliver!” She tugs her helmet off, revealing a beaming smile. “That was amazing!”

“Yeah, it was,” he agrees readily, pulling his own helmet off and running a hand over his hair. “You know what you’re doing - are you sure that was your first time on a bike?”

“I might have … googled it,” she admits, looking anywhere but at him. “In case, y’know, I needed a ride from you in like, an emergency–”

“Right,” Oliver agrees, biting back a smile. “An emergency.”

“Shut up.” She bats a hand against his chest, laughing.

He knows he’s starting to stare. He should look away now. Instead he just … gazes at her. Her hair is falling all over the place, her ponytail flattened to her head by the helmet. The adrenaline and excitement have left her breathless, her cheeks pink, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath through her laughter. Fuck, he could have her right here, right now. He could push her against the cold concrete wall of Verdant, peel those jeans down her thighs and make her see stars. He actually feels himself tip forward, leaning towards her without meaning to, before he catches himself.

“Here,” Felicity says, handing him the helmet back and breaking the suddenly charged silence.

He rocks back onto his heels, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks. “You’re cold,” he says, when her fingers brush against his.

“Kinda,” Felicity agrees, puffing out her cheeks. She hugs her arms around herself, rubbing her hands against the tops of her arms. “Turns out bikers wear those leather jackets for something other than fashion, huh?”

“Here,” Oliver says, resting the two helmets on the bike’s seat and shrugging out of his own jacket.

“Oh you don’t have to–”

“I want to.” He leans in to drape it around her shoulders, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of her hair. “There.” He tugs the two sides closed around her, breathing out a sigh. “That’s better.”

Felicity turns her head into the collar of the jacket, inhaling deeply, and smiles a tiny smile into the leather there. Oliver hisses in a breath, heart hammering in his chest. She looks tiny, drowned by the size of the jacket. A spark of something fierce and protective blazes into life in his chest and he reaches for her, encasing both her hands in his. Then, because he’s either a genius or an idiot, he brings their clasped hands up to his lips and blows on them.

Felicity’s breath stutters, her hands trembling in his.

“Better?” he asks, his voice a little unsteady.

She nods mechanically, eyes on his lips. She shivers and a thrill of excitement shoots through him because he knows, just _knows_ , it’s not because of the cold.

He blows on their clasped hands again, slowly and softly, before releasing her hands.

“Thanks,” she says softly, smiling a lazy, punch-drunk sort of smile.

“You’re welcome,” he says, balling his hands into fists to stop himself reaching for her.

The back of Verdant smells like dumpsters and stale cigarettes, and he’d happily stand out here all night if she’d just stay right there and keep looking at him like this - like he hung the moon.

“We should…” she trails off, gesturing vaguely towards Verdant.

“Right.” He hovers a hand over the small of her back, following her as she starts to walk.

Halfway to the door, she stops, turning to look up at him.

“Hey, Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you take me home later?”

It hits him like a freight train, how much he wants that to mean something more than it does.

“Don’t make me get in Dig’s boring car instead,” she needles, pulling a face, because he still hasn’t answered her. She bites down hard on her bottom lip, her tongue darting out immediately after to soothe the spot. “I want another ride.”

Oliver chokes on nothing at all. On thin air.

“Oliver?” She tilts up her chin to look at him, blue eyes bright and expectant.

“Oh ... uh yeah, sure.” He clears his throat. “Whatever you want.”

“Thanks, pal,” she says, smiling sweetly over her shoulder at him as she keys in the code for the door.

“No problem,” he lies, following her inside.

Oh, it’s a problem.

\--


	9. Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory post 4x09 ficlet. Angsty, of course.

Even the flowers can’t make her hospital room beautiful.

They cover every free surface, their colours softening the glare of the stark white walls, but it’s still not enough. There’s something ugly in here that even a thousand roses couldn’t hide, and it’s not the wires trailing from her hand, or the monitors behind her head. It’s the chart at the foot of her bed, the one that lists, in the precise unfamiliar hand of a stranger, exactly what happened to the love of his life. Exactly how many times her heart stopped beating.

        -----------

_The beach house is beautiful – all whitewashed walls and driftwood, and big patio doors that open right out onto the beach, scattering sand over the wooden floors. Everything in their bedroom is white, from the peeling paint on the dresser to the gauzy drapes fluttering at the open window, weaving fresh air into fresh cotton. When the sun comes up in the morning, every single thing in the room glows._

_Oliver doesn’t like it very much._

_It’s too perfect, too much like a dream to wake up like this, with the sun warm on his face and Felicity lying fast asleep beside him, her curls glinting gold in the morning light. It’s hard to remember that it’s real, not just some dream he’s holding in his mind in the dungeons of Nanda Parbat. But Felicity loves it here and he can still hear the joyous click of her heels as she skipped across the wooden floors when they got the keys, so he figures he can put up with paradise a little longer if it’s for her sake._

\-----------

There’s a single broken blind at her window, letting a sliver of morning light fall across her bed, the weak December sunlight warming her pale cheeks a little. As dawn creeps in, the displays on the monitors around her bed seem to glow. 

Oliver kind of likes that.

Those lights mean that Felicity’s still breathing, the constant steady beeps telling him that she’s still here, still  _fighting_. For that, those hideous machines are the most beautiful thing in this whole room. Except for her. 

Even now – her hair knotted, mascara smudged like bruised around her eyes – she’s still so beautiful that it’s hard to convince himself that this is real. This isn’t a dream. He didn’t lose her right there in that street, the weight of her in his arms familiar and yet so wrong at the same time. 

He reaches for the lukewarm coffee at his side, swallowing the bitter dregs down in one, willing the caffeine to work fast. It tastes horrible, and the chair’s too hard and the sunlight is starting to hurt his tired eyes and he will stay right here, by her side, and he won’t care about any of it as long as she keeps breathing. 

\-----------

_He props his head up on his fist, settling onto his side to look at her. Her mouth is half open, a little patch of drool glistening at the side that he loves, irrationally and completely, for being so ordinary. The simple proof that he’s not dreaming. He’s awake and it’s just … Tuesday. Totally normal, totally real. Tuesday._

_Felicity shifts a little, turning onto her side, seeking him out even in sleep. She burrows into her pillow, clicking her tongue a little but not forming any words.  She looks … not young exactly, but younger somehow, bare without her glasses. He stares at her for a long time, trying to place what else is different. When it finally comes to him, he says it aloud. “Freckles.”_

_“Hmm?” Felicity shifts, cracking one eye open for a moment. “What y’saying?”_

\-----------

There’s something so … wrong about how still she is, how quiet. 

People keep saying that she’s sleeping, like that’s kinder somehow, than unconscious. But they don’t know her like he does. They don’t know that she’s never quiet, that she sleeps like she lives –  in constant motion. She shifts around all night, mumbling nonsense against his skin and stealing the sheets. When he cries out from a nightmare, she wraps herself around him, legs and arms locked around his back, as if she could shield him with her body. He has cried against her skin more times than he can count tonight and she hasn’t moved an inch. 

She isn’t sleeping.

\-----------

_“Morning,” he says softly, smiling as she grumbles nonsensically._

_“Morning,” she murmurs back drowsily, smiling without opening her eyes. She’s a cuddly morning person, he’s learning, half-drunk on sleep until she’s had her first coffee. Sure enough, her arm snakes out quickly, landing near his hip and idly patting his ass.  “You staring at me ‘gain?”_

_“A little,” he concedes, tracing an idle finger across her cheek. Her skin is the softest thing in the world and something like gratitude swells in his chest that he can reach out and touch it like this, just because he wants to. “You have freckles.” They’re everywhere actually, a spray on her cheeks, her forehead, over her shoulders, even right down to the swell of her breast. “Did you always have this many freckles?”_

_“No,” she says, laughing a little at how pleased he is. She opens her eyes properly, fixing him with a lazy smile. “It’s just the sun.”_

_“Oh.” Oliver trails his hand down her neck, towards her chest and the run of freckles there. She shivers under his touch, letting out a whimper of sleepy approval. “I thought so.”_

_“Most of them’ll fade in the Fall,” she explains, sighing softly as he ghosts his finger over her skin. “They always do.”_

_\-----------_

He hasn’t stared at her like this since the summer, those sun-soaked days when anything seemed possible, the mornings when she shrieked with laughter as his fingers danced across her skin, mapping every freckle he could find.

She was right, of course, they’ve faded now. 

He stands, leaning over her bed and resting his shaking legs against the metal frame. Carefully, so very slowly, he runs his hand from her hairline to her jaw, curling his fingers around to her ear. Her skin is cold under his thumb, despite the sunlight on her cheeks, and something sinks in his chest at the unfamiliar chill. 

They should be at home this morning, wrapped up in their comforter, warm and content and deliriously happy. It’s the first day of the rest of their lives. It can’t be the last of hers. 

“Hey.” He leans down closer, even though there’s no-one else in the room to hear him. “Time to wake up, honey.”

\-----------

_It hits him then, like it hasn’t quite before – the future that’s waiting for him. He’ll see these freckles fade into winter pallor, over and over, year after year. He’ll kiss her chapped lips and and hold her cold hands, and until the sun shines again he’ll wait, eyes on her, always on her, until those freckles sweep across her skin again. Anticipation thrums through him, chased by a shiver of something wonderful, something that feels a lot like joy._

_“I love your freckles.” He leans in and kisses her freckled nose. “I love you.”_

 -----------

“C’mon, Felicity.” He kisses her cold lips. “Please.” 

Everything about this is wrong. Felicity in December is supposed to steal his sweaters, her hands lost in the sleeves, her nose red and her cheeks rosy. She’s not supposed to be here, her clothes cut to ribbons in a bag at his feet. That first summer isn’t supposed to wind up as their last.

“We’re just getting started. Don’t leave me now.”

 


	10. Consider Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post ep ficlet for 1x15 (Dodger)
> 
> Diggle, Felicity & Oliver get drinks after catching The Dodger.

“We should get tattoos!”

That’s about when Oliver realises that Felicity might be a little drunk.

Drunk on what though, he’s not too sure. One glance at her – at the flush of colour on her cheeks and the way her hand keeps going to her neck, idly touching the bare skin where the Dodger’s collar rested just a few hours ago – tells him there’s more intoxicants at play here than just the fruity drinks she’s been knocking back like water ever since they arrived. 

“Tattoos?” Diggle repeats, arching an eyebrow at her. He seems relaxed enough, beer in hand, his tie discarded, but there’s a keenness in the way he’s watching Felicity that betrays his concern. “Really?”

“Why not?” Felicity puts her drink down a little too forcefully, upsetting the cocktail umbrella. She grabs it up off the table, pointing the tip at Oliver’s chest. “He already has at least two! I saw them when you got – y’know … _shot_ ,” she reminds Oliver, sounding out the last word in an exaggerated whisper. “Wow, that still sounds so weird. You got shot.”

“I remember, Felicity,” Oliver says, feeling a smile tug at his lips. He pushes the urge down, though it’s not quite as easy as usual. He can’t hold his beer like he used to, that’s all. 

“Maybe we all get a tiny little arrow,” she muses, stretching her arm out and turning it over to inspect the bare skin in the crook of her elbow. “Although that’s maybe a little obvious if we ever get arrested. I don’t know, what d’you guys think?”

“I think a tattoo is a little permanent for someone who’s only on the team to find Walter,” Diggle says, folding his arms and fixing her with a knowing look. “Don’t you?”

“Oh. Yeah … that.” Felicity drops the cocktail umbrella back in her glass and bites down on her straw, speaking around it. “Maybe I’m reconsidering that particular caveat.”

“What?” Oliver sits forwards so quickly that he kicks the table, almost sending their drinks flying. “Since when?”

“Since we took down an international jewel thief,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like the takedown didn’t involve a bomb collar around that slender neck of hers. 

Oliver huffs out a laugh, sharing a look with Diggle. _This girl_. “So you’re saying you’re in?” 

She tilts her head, her curls falling onto her shoulder, glinting against the gold of her dress. “Yes.” It takes him completely by surprise – that soaring rush of … _something_ that courses through him when she smiles. “I am.”

“Glad to hear it.” It’s mostly anticipation, he decides, rubbing a palm hard over his racing heart. She’s unbelievably smart, a useful asset to the team, of course it’s a relief that she’s staying. But there’s something else there too – a hint of something foreign, half forgotten. The thought of her sticking around, staying on the team, it makes him … happy. God, three beers and he’s a bleeding heart. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not a fan of your whole Burn Book of bad guys thing,” she goes on, and Oliver doesn’t fight the urge to smile this time. “But … what we did tonight – that was good. I could get used to that.”

“Someone put a bomb around your throat, Felicity,” Diggle reminds her, depositing his empty beer bottle on the table. “Most people would think twice about getting mixed up–”

“Well, I’m not most people,” she says, though her hand flutters ever so slightly in an aborted move to her neck. She flashes them both a smile, the barest hint of steel behind it. “And neither are you two.”

“I don’t know what you mean, I’m totally normal.” Diggle grins, pushing his chair back and getting up. He claps a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “He’s the one who dresses up in green leather and grease paint for fun. I’ll get us another round.”

“How do you get that stuff off anyway?” Felicity says, turning inquisitive eyes to Oliver as Diggle heads to the bar. She gestures vaguely at his face, her eyes kind of crossing a little, and he’s suddenly reminded of how much stronger her drinks are than their beers. “The grease paint, I mean. Not your pants. I think I can guess how they come off.” 

“With difficulty,” he admits grudgingly, getting up. “I should go help Dig.”

“I’m gonna bring you some nice makeup wipes,” she says, rolling her head round to follow him as he passes behind her. She grins at him, upside down. “Good ones, the sensitive type. They’ll be kind to your pretty eyes. Your eyes, I mean. Not that your eyes aren’t–” 

“Thanks,” he says, and she flashes him a sheepish smile, grateful for the interruption. “Now I won’t have to steal Thea’s.”

Felicity drops her head forwards again, twisting round to watch him as he walks away. “You steal your sister’s makeup remover?”

“Not anymore, apparently,” he says, throwing her a glance over his shoulder. “Now I steal yours.”

Felicity’s delighted laugh follows him all the way to the bar. He shoulders his way through to stand beside Diggle, nudging the other man’s arm to get his attention. “D’you think we should cut her off?” He jerks his head back towards Felicity, picking her out easily by the flash of her gold dress. “These drinks are pretty strong and she’s gotta be heading for a comedown from all the adrenaline–”

“Oh that girl is on mocktails,” Diggle interrupts, flicking his finger against the highball glass the bartender just deposited in front of them. “I stopped buying the real stuff when her hands started shaking.”

“Good idea,” Oliver says, shoving down a flicker of guilt for not noticing as quickly. Diggle’s a bodyman, he reminds himself sternly, keeping a close eye on people is his job. And he’s pretty damn good at it. “Thanks, Dig.” 

“No problem,” Diggle says, grabbing their beers and nudging Felicity’s glass towards Oliver for him to carry it. “I think the damage might’ve been done already anyway.”

Felicity’s on her phone when they get back, so absorbed in whatever she’s doing that she doesn’t even look up at their approach. She must hear them though because at the last minute she kicks out a leg to each of their chairs in turn, shoving them back enough to make space for them both to sit back down. A group of guys that were slowly positioning themselves nearer the table scatter away, looking disappointed, and Oliver chooses not to examine the momentary flicker of satisfaction that brings.

“Thank you.” Felicity sets her phone down, accepting her drink. She takes a mouthful then promptly spits out the straw, frowning. “No booze in this one either, huh?”

“You – uh – you noticed that?” Dig says, setting his own drink down.

“Of course I noticed,” she says, looking mildly offended that he would think otherwise. “But lucky for you I’m buzzed enough as it is and I do actually enjoy the occasional Shirley Temple.”

“I just thought–”

“You thought I was hyped up on adrenaline and that when the inevitable crash came, being incredibly drunk wouldn’t be the best idea,” she says, plucking out the cocktail umbrella and biting down on one of the cherries speared on it’s stake. “Right?”

“Exactly.”

“Is that why I’m shaking?” she asks, her voice suddenly quieter. She looks between them both, biting down on her bottom lip. “That’s the shock, right?”

Oliver sees it then – the gooseflesh on her arms, on her thighs, disappearing up under the short skirt of her dress. The guilt at involving her in this life claws its way back up his throat, making it hard to breathe. “Felicity–”

“It’s fine,” she says forcefully, hugging her arms around herself. “It’s just new, that’s all. Not sure I’ve ever been in shock before.” She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “It kind of sucks.”

“You want to go home?” Diggle says, already moving to get up.

She shakes her head, her curls flying into her face. “No!” Carefully, she picks a stray strand out of her eyes. “I want to sit here with my team – with my _friends_ – and I want to toast our success.” 

“Okay, then,” Diggle says, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over Felicity’s knees like a blanket. “That’s what we’ll do.”

“I mean – we caught someone that interpol couldn’t catch,” Felicity says, grabbing her phone up and waving it at them, a news report showing on the screen. “Interpol!”

“Here’s to being better than Interpol, then,” Oliver says, raising his beer bottle.

“Here’s to Oliver’s family jewels,” Diggle puts in, smirking as he raises his own bottle.

“I’m not going to live that one down am I?” Felicity grumbles, pulling her glass away.

“Not in this lifetime.”

She pulls a face, raising her glass again. “Here’s to – wait, do we have a name? Like a team-name?”

“No.” This time Oliver is the one to pull away from the toast. “And we don’t need one, Felicity.”

“We’ll see about that,” Felicity says, winking at Diggle. “And about the tattoos.”

Oliver shakes his head at her, amusement lifting the corners of his mouth before he can fight it. “Here’s to us,” he offers, touching his bottle against Diggle and Felicity’s drinks in turn.

A glance at his watch tells him they’ve been here for over an hour already, more than the twenty minutes he thought he’d have to force himself to sit through. More than that, he could happily stay longer. Possibilities explode in his brain – if he can do this, if he can _enjoy_ this, then maybe dinner with McKenna isn’t so impossible after all. He could try again. 

“You okay, Oliver?” Felicity says, now eating the second cherry out of her drink. The curls are dropping out of her hair now and she’s got Dig’s jacket tucked tight around her legs, one shaking hand hidden under her thighs. She looks strung out, tired, impossibly young. And yet here she is, worrying about _him_. “You’re miles away.”

“Nope.” He smiles at her, something easing in his chest when she smiles back. Maybe he can try again with McKenna but not now. Right now, he can just sit here and have a drink with his friends. “I am right here.”

“Good. Now … how about The Hoodlums as our team name?” Her smile drops. “No, forget it, that makes us sound too criminal. Also kind of vintage.”

“We don’t need–”

“Team Hood?”

“Let it go, Felicity.”

“Never.”


	11. 05-16-85

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post ep ficlet for 4x19 Canary Cry. Spoilers for that ep and previous. Nothing for the future.
> 
> Vaguely hopeful angst - if that even exists as a category.

Star City is always quietest at dawn. The empty sidewalks and closed up storefronts zip by as Oliver cuts across town on the Ducati, heading to Palmer Tech. The whole time he tells himself that he’s going to turn back. At the next stop light. Any minute now. Any second.

Felicity was right about him. He always lies.

When Oliver finally pulls up on the street outside Palmer Tech, he flips his visor up and turns his tired eyes to the brightening sky. Even at this hour, the weak April sunlight is threatening to burn through the clouds, warming the leather at his back. It’s going to be such a beautiful day. The wrongness of that – another morning that Laurel won’t see – eats away at him until he fires the engine up again, glad to pull into the shade of the parking garage. 

That’s when the doubts start to take root, down there under the flickering fluorescent lights, seventy-six storeys away from Felicity. This is a bad idea. A presumption too far. She might have held him in the hospital, her familiar touch the eye of the storm of it all, but that doesn’t change anything. She’s back on the team, nothing more. Her ring is still in his pocket, not on her finger, and she still went home without him after the funeral.

Still, he doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t even consider it, really. His heavy legs carry him to the lobby where he musters a tired smile for the night-shift guards on the desk there. His chest tightens as he asks them to go up, nowhere near ready to find out if she’s going to turn him away, but they don’t even call for approval before waving him through. His name might not be on the building anymore, might not be stitched over their hearts on the uniform they’re wearing, but it still counts for something. _He_ still counts for something. Not for the first time, Oliver thinks, _I really could’ve won that election._

The express elevator to the penthouse takes less than a minute, the speed making his ears pop painfully the whole way up. Felicity hates that feeling, he remembers suddenly, half a smile tugging at his downturned lips. He closes his eyes on his lonely reflection in the mirrored walls, conjuring up the image of her beside him instead – her nose pinched shut, air blown into her cheeks.

When the elevator chimes it’s arrival, he snaps his eyes open again, wiping his nervous palms on his jeans. The doors slide open slowly, too slowly, until suddenly everything’s happening too quickly because she’s right there, not two paces away, and he's not remotely ready. Every single thing he thought he would say – hell, every single word he’s ever known – flies right out of his head in an instant because she looks … god, she looks just like a hundred mornings gone by. 

Her hair is scraped back into a messy bun, her usually bright lips bare of color, and she’s drowning in oversized pyjama pants and her favorite ratty old Star Labs t-shirt. He sucks in a breath, tired and overwhelmed and heartbroken, absolutely fucking heartbroken that he lost the privilege of seeing her like this every day.

Oblivious to his silent breakdown, Felicity folds her arms and waits for him to explain his presence. Oliver swallows hard over the lump in his throat, understanding the unspoken message in the curious tilt of her head. She isn’t going to speak first this time, isn’t about to run into his arms like she did in the hospital. Whatever he wants here, he is going to have to ask for it. The thoughtful frown on her face says she doesn’t know if he will, if he can. 

“Felicity, can I come inside?” he asks, his voice quiet but not weak.

She unfolds her arms, her lips parting in surprise. That shouldn’t hurt, but it does. She doesn’t understand yet that when it comes to her, he really can do anything. 

When she doesn’t answer, Oliver shifts his weight slightly, desperate to move but not daring to. “Please?”

The elevator doors starting to close is what finally jolts her into motion. “Oh, um – yeah. Yes,” she says, sticking out a foot to hold the doors open. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” He waits until she turns away before he lets out the breath he was holding.

Felicity leads him up the hallway and he follows obediently, his eyes fixing on one stray curl at the nape of her neck. If he just reached out he could curl it around his index finger, could lift it up and see the freckles underneath. If that was the sort of the thing he was allowed to do anymore. He curls his fingers into fists at his sides.

Felicity pauses when they reach the door, lifting her glasses up onto her head for a moment as she leans in to the retina scanner mounted on the wall. He doesn’t mean to stare but his hyper-awareness isn’t something he can control, so he watches covertly over her shoulder as she follows up the scan with a palm-print and finally an access code. He opens his mouth to say something complimentary about her security precautions but by the time she’s done keying in the code he can’t speak, can’t seem to catch his breath.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Felicity says, obviously expecting him to be watching. She tips him a look over her shoulder and he just about manages to shrug in reply. “I know, I know. Code’s too predictable, right?”

“I wouldn’t have guessed it.” It slips out as a strangled whisper, a beat too late, and he’s beyond grateful that she doesn’t seem to hear him over the sound of the door releasing. 

Felicity heads inside and holds the door open, allowing him into the home she’s making without him. And it’s … not what he expected. It’s nothing at all, really – just bare walls and boxes, stacked in twos and threes all over the floor. If it was hard to breathe before, it’s impossible now.

“I’m gonna get around to unpacking,” she says quickly, before the transience of it all can give him hope.

“Sure,” he agrees, knowing she’s already too late. If he ever manages to fall asleep again, he’ll dream of those boxes, that access code. 

“I’ve just – I’ve been busy is all,” Felicity says, absently picking up a mug from the box that’s acting as a side table by her couch. “Y’know, with all the physical therapy and – and with Palmer Tech.” She huffs out a forced laugh. “PT and PT.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Yeah, of course, I – I know that.” She gives herself a little shake, then waves the mug in her hand. “Want some coffee?”

“Not really.”

“Food?”

“Not hungry.”

“Right.” She walks towards the small kitchen, setting the empty mug down on the breakfast bar with more force than necessary. “What _do_ you want, Oliver?” She spins back to him, throwing her hands up in a helpless shrug. “Do you have a lead on Darhk, because you could’ve just called–”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

He falters, not sure that the words really exist to explain the compulsion he felt to seek her out this morning. If they do, he can’t find them. 

“I wanted to see .... how you were doing,” he says lamely, after a moment. “With everything.” 

It’s not a lie, not exactly. He does want to know how she is, he wants to know everything about her. It’s what keeps him up at night, all the things he doesn’t get to know anymore. What she had for breakfast and what color she’s painting her nails and whether she found that necklace she lost in her office. 

“I’m not doing so good,” Felicity answers, irritation flashing across her face. “I’m awful, actually. Everything’s awful.” She folds her arms again, curling in on herself, tired and small and hurting. His fault, of course. “There. Is that all you wanted?”

“No.” He clenches his hands at his sides, furious with himself for adding to her pain. 

“Then wh–”

“I just – I wanted … this _.”_ He waves a hand in the space between them. “You.” 

Felicity sighs heavily, closing her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them again there’s a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill out.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he blurts out, suddenly terrified that she’s about to ask him to leave. “After yesterday, after everything. D’you know it’s two years today since Slade killed my Mother–”

“Oh, Oliver–” 

“And I can’t even stop to think about that because there’s just ... there’s so much to do. Darhk is still out there, Dig’s falling apart, Thea–” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, closing his tired eyes for a moment. “I need to make this right and I just – I don’t know how.”

“You want my help?” Felicity guesses, studying his face like his expression might explain what his words aren’t. “Because you know you’ve got it. I’m back on the team–”

Oliver grinds out a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his hair. “I’m not here about the team.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, her red eyes wide and expectant behind her glasses. “Then tell me. What are you here for?”

“ _You_.” Her quiet patience – so much kinder than he deserves – is what finally makes him brave. “Look, Felicity, I know we’re not together anymore and I know that’s mostly – probably all – my fault–”

“Oliver–”

“And I know I’ve got no right to ask you for anything–”

“Hey, you can ask me _anything_ ,” she says quickly, starting across the distance between them. “I mean, obviously I might not give it to you, it kind of depends on what you’re asking.” She stops, cocking her head to the side, and he realises that she’s as lost as he is. “Like if you’re asking me for a million dollars to buy some hocus pocus that’s gonna stop Dark then it’s yours, but if you’re asking me to come home then I can’t – I’m not–”

“It’s nothing like that,” he interrupts her rambling, trying to push down the flare of hope that her choice of words set off in his chest. _Home._ The room suddenly feels too warm, the light streaming in the windows too bright. 

“I just wondered if you’d let me … sit with you? Just for a little while.” His voice breaks. It’s such a small question but it feels like his whole life hinges on the answer. “That’s all.”

He’s not sure what he expects to happen next. He’s not so hopeful as to think she’ll run into his arms, not so pessimistic as to think she’ll be angry. In the end, nothing happens at all. Felicity doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, barely even seems to be breathing. His words hang in the air between them and as the silence continues he finds, as he always does, that he has more capacity for despair than he ever knew.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, putting all his effort into keeping his voice steady. He will not make her feel guilty, not for anything. “You don’t have to say anything, I’ll–

“Oliver–”

“No, it was selfish of me to come here,” he says, hurrying for the door. “I shouldn’t have–”

“Wait,” she orders, her voice ringing out in the small room.

He obeys immediately, stopping directly alongside her, so close he can almost feel the back of her hand against his. 

“Did I actually ask you to leave?” she says, turning her head to stare at him.

“No, but–”

“No,” she repeats, the morning sun catching on the shine of tears in her eyes. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Okay,” he agrees quickly, chastised and hopeful and every damn thing in between. “So what are you saying?”

She jerks her head towards the couch “I’m saying … stay. Sit.” She raises a warning finger that trembles slightly. “Just for a little while though, yeah? Five minutes.”

“Yeah.” Oliver lets out a ragged breath, relief almost buckling his knees. “Five minutes.”

The couch is the only piece of real furniture in the room and when he sheds his jacket and sits down he knows, immediately, that she didn’t choose it. It’s not that comfortable, built for an office and not a home, and it doesn’t abide by her cardinal rule about couches – the seat’s too small for her to comfortably tuck her feet up underneath her. When she sits down next to him, she stretches her feet out in front of her instead, resting them on another set of boxes where a coffee table should really be. 

Oliver lifts his own feet up onto the boxes, mirroring her position, and it’s the littlest thing but every part of him aches with gratitude just to see her feet propped up alongside his again. She’s so close, settled right next to him even though the couch is large enough for three people at least. Which means she’s choosing this, all of it – her arm pressed up against his, her thigh against his thigh, her hand inches from his – she _wants_ it.

“I never used to know what to do with them,” Oliver says quietly, looking for a safe topic to distract himself from the urge to take her hand.

“What?”

He nods his head to her socks – white with thick red stripes. “Whites or colors, y’know?”

Felicity snorts half a laugh, wiggling her toes. “Me neither.”

Even now, the miracle of that simple movement still astounds him. He sucks in a breath, knocking his shoe gently against her foot, and she does it again for him, just because she can.

“Sometimes I still can’t believe it,” she whispers, rolling her ankles now.

“It’s amazing.” Grief and exhaustion and the warmth of her by his side – so familiar and so missed – make the next words slip out. “You’re amazing, Felicity.”

She doesn’t say anything more, just keeps rolling her ankles over and over, until the movement starts to lull him to sleep. He drops his head against the back of the couch, feeling his eyes start to slip shut.

“Have you been sleeping at all?” Felicity asks after a moment, gently poking a finger into his thigh. “Since – since it happened?”

“Not really,” he says quietly, staring at her hand where she’s left it palm up on his leg. It’s the closest thing to an invite he’s going to get so he lands his hand on top of hers and laces their fingers together. Felicity sighs at the contact, giving his hand a squeeze, and for one perfect moment he doesn’t want for anything at all. Then he remembers why he’s here, what they’ve lost, and the spot of warmth in his chest dissolves at once.

“I can’t sleep either,” Felicity says softly, turning her head towards him slightly so her hair isn’t crushed against the couch. She’s so close he can feel her breath on his face as she sighs. “I just keep thinking about Laurel … about her family.”

“Me too.” He drops his head to the side as well, meeting her eyes.

“God, Oliver, Sara doesn’t even know yet,” she says, her voice wavering. “She’s out there somewhere, carrying on, living her life, and she doesn’t even know we buried her sister yesterday.” She flutters her eyes closed for a moment and he finds himself staring at every single eyelash, and the tears still clinging there. “It’s just … not fair. None of it.” 

“I know,” Oliver says, squeezing her hand hard. “I know, Felicity.”

When she opens her eyes again, she’s calmer, though only barely. “Talking of sisters,” she says, casting around for a subject as she lifts her glasses up to wipe at her eyes, “how’s Thea doing?”

“I don’t know really,” he says heavily. “I tried to get her to come home with me after the funeral but she wouldn’t.”

“She’s still–” Felicity sucks in a breath, a pinch of a frown appearing between her eyes. “She’s still living at Laurel’s?”

“Yeah,” he says, hating the thought of Thea sitting alone in Laurel’s apartment as much as he had when she first insisted on going back there, the same night Laurel died. “I’ve asked her over and over to come back to the loft but–”

“But she just wants to be by herself,” Felicity says, nudging her shoulder against his. “Yeah, I’ve seen that before.” She huffs a forced laugh. “Running away when someone you love dies … guess it runs in the family, huh?”

“I’m not running this time,” Oliver says, and Felicity’s quiet laughter dies immediately.

“No,” she agrees, something unreadable flashing across her pale face. “You’re not.”

Suddenly she’s looking at him in a way she hasn’t for weeks, like she can’t think of anyone else in the world she’d rather be looking at, like she’s _proud_ of him, and it’s almost too much to bear.

“Oliver 2.0,” she says softly, shaking her head.

“I’m trying.”

Her chapped lips tick upwards into a sad smile. She’s so close, and so beautiful, and he loves her so much, it takes everything in him not to lean over the space between them and press his lips to hers. But he promised himself that he’d earn that right back and he’s not remotely there yet so he tears his eyes away from her lips and tells himself he’s imagining the flash of disappointment that crosses her face.

Carefully, he extracts his hand from hers and lift his arm up onto the back of the couch behind her head, letting her decide what happens next. For a moment she stiffens and he holds his breath, afraid he’s pushed too far. But then she shifts onto her side, throwing her arm around his waist and dropping her head to rest against his chest, and something that’s been missing slots back into place in his heart.

For a moment he doesn’t move, too overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all – her slight weight against his chest, the fresh scent of her hair, even the slight poke of her glasses digging into him. Then she grumbles slightly and he freezes completely, barely even breathing until she plucks off her glasses and drops them into his lap. He relaxes at once, understanding. Free of the restriction, Felicity burrows her face even closer into his chest, inhaling deeply and humming a sigh that’s almost joyful. 

Oliver drops his arm down from the back of the couch, anchoring her against him as gratitude swells in his chest, warming him more than the shaft of early morning sunlight that’s falling on his face. He runs his hand in slow circles over the soft fabric of her t-shirt until she melts even further against him, soft and warm and the most precious thing in his whole universe.

“I should go,” he whispers eventually because if he falls asleep in her arms he knows he’ll never find the strength to leave. “My five minutes must be up.”

“Not yet.” Felicity shifts up ever so slightly and when she presses a kiss to the soft skin at the underside of his jaw, that’s it, there’s no way he’s leaving. She settles back down against his chest, whimpering a yawn. “Five more minutes.”

Oliver stutters out a breath into her hair, the ghost of her lips still on his neck. “Five more minutes,” he agrees quietly, tightening his arm around her and shifting slightly to curl his other arm around her waist. 

“Maybe ten,” she amends, voice rough with sleep and god, it’s been so long since he’s heard that tone from her, since he’s felt her breathing slow down in time with his. It’s the only lullaby he’s ever needed. “Thirty minutes, tops.”

“As long as you want, Felicity.” He closes his eyes, allowing himself to press one kiss to her hairline, feeling her breathing flutter a little underneath him. “As long as you’ll have me.”

He falls asleep with his cheek resting on the crown of her head and he thinks he dreams her mumbling, “Forever.”

 

 

 


End file.
